For All That You Are
by bingblot
Summary: Nothing had changed. And yet, in a way, things had changed between them... Castle and Beckett grow closer, helped along by Kyra. The sequel to "Thankful."
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: As usual, all things "Castle" belong to ABC & Co.

Author's Note: As promised, the sequel to "Thankful." You should read that first. I hope this is worth the wait!

 **For All That You Are**

 _Chapter 1_

Nothing had changed.

Spending Thanksgiving at the loft with Castle and his family hadn't changed anything.

Not that she'd expected it to.

He still showed up whenever she called him about a case, just like before. He still concocted crazy theories involving the CIA or aliens or shape-shifters (and one particularly ridiculous theory that somehow involved all three) and she still teased him for them, just like before. He still irritated her on a practically daily basis, just like before.

So really, nothing had changed.

Except, somehow, in a way, things had changed. Not obviously, not so anyone would really notice, but it just… felt different. At least to her.

Now, when she called him up at all hours of the day or night about a case and he showed up so willingly, she heard Alexis's voice in her head talking about how Castle was happier since he'd started shadowing her.

Now, when he expounded on one of his ridiculous theories or made some wisecrack that had her rolling her eyes, she remembered the other side of him she'd seen. Now, when she caught him eyeing her chest or her butt or when he made some innuendo, she heard his voice in her head saying, _I'm thankful for you too_ or heard her dad saying, _he cares about you, Katie…_

And she couldn't feel that irritated because she knew that whatever else, he wasn't really the jackass he occasionally acted like, wasn't only out to get into her pants. Whatever else, they were _friends_ too.

It felt as if her ability to feel annoyed with him had been… dulled a little, the sharp edges of it worn away so it was just weaker, less tinged with anger and more tinged with humor.

But still, nothing had really changed and things went on, as they had before. Mostly.

He missed out on one case that came up when he took a few days off between Christmas and New Year's to take Alexis out to California so she could spend some time with Meredith. It was, Kate realized, the first case that he hadn't been there for in months, the first since the day she'd forgiven him for looking into her mom's case. It turned out to be a rather complicated one but she and the boys worked together in their usual efficient manner, undisturbed by any distracting, outlandish theories or irrelevant jokes. They solved it in fairly short order, earning a brief word of commendation from Captain Montgomery. It should have been good. And yet… Kate was surprised by the little niggling feeling of… dissatisfaction afterwards because it just felt… less fun without Castle. Less fun without building theory with him, less fun without being able to look over at him and see that he had followed her train of thought. And she found herself thinking that after all, they might have even solved it quicker if Castle had been there, with his out-of-the-box thinking, his retentive memory for seemingly insignificant details.

She didn't really like it. But she couldn't deny it either, that he had weaseled himself into her work and her life like a discordant thread woven in too-large stitches throwing off the warp and weft of the previously neatly-ordered fabric of her life. He made her life messy—but she had to admit, although she wasn't particularly pleased by the admission—that he also made her life… colorful. As if until his advent, she'd been living in black and white and now, she was living in vivid Technicolor.

And she'd really been spending way too much time with Castle when she was starting to think in terms of such overblown metaphors.

But then he came back from California and, well, she changed her mind.

She was going to shoot him, she thought, not for the first time in the last couple days. She didn't know how she'd resisted shooting him until now but she was definitely going to shoot him. Soon.

It was like he'd left what little sense of self-restraint he had back in California. And now he was… practically wild. And more annoying than he'd ever been. He was always prone to fidgeting but now he seemed incapable of sitting still for more than a few seconds at a time. He spent one car ride out to talk to one of the victim's friends and potential person of interest playing with the radio buttons in her car until she threatened to shoot off his hand. He stopped—but only to whine volubly about how important his hands were since he needed them to write. He even appropriated a rolling chair and amused himself by spinning around in it in the middle of the bullpen!

She didn't know what the hell was wrong with him! His antics and his theories were approaching almost manic levels of ridiculousness to the point that even Ryan was openly scoffing at them.

He gave up the rolling chair when she sharply ordered him to do so and returned to his usual one.

She didn't have the _time_ for this! Didn't have the time or the patience or the inclination to be babysitting this ridiculous annoying man-child! Damn him and damn the Mayor for making sure Castle got to shadow her! She hadn't been sleeping well and she knew there were dark circles under her eyes that her makeup couldn't quite conceal so the last thing she needed was to have to put up with Castle, who appeared to have decided to commit suicide by cop by annoying her until she shot him.

Damn him anyway. Just as she'd finally admitted that he made her work more fun and started to be glad that he was around, he pulled this sort of stunt and made her never want to set eyes on him again.

His hand moved to toy with one of the elephant figurines on her desk.

It wasn't something he hadn't done before and usually she stopped him with a look or ignored him until he returned the figurine to its usual spot, which he usually did before too long. But right then, her nerves and her temper fraying after the last couple days, she snapped, snatching the figurine out from under his hand and pointedly depositing it into her drawer, since even Castle generally didn't dare rummage in her drawers. "Stop it, Castle! What is your problem lately?"

Her voice had risen to cut across the bullpen and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Espo and Ryan glance at each other and then at her, and she automatically tensed, another flare of annoyance building. She knew that look the boys had shared, recognized Espo's expression. It was their 'don't disturb the sleeping dragon' (or more accurately, don't disturb the sleeping Beckett) expression. And Ryan's look barely bothered to disguise his concern, the one he threw her all too often this week every year.

She was going to send them both dumpster-diving on the next case, possibly even sewer-diving if she could possibly arrange it, she decided. She didn't need pity, didn't need taken care of.

But then Castle, as usual, rushed in where angels feared to tread. Ignoring what she'd just said. Because of course he would since he never seemed to listen to her anyway and was incapable of following directions. "I've got it! The killer's a fixer for the CIA and he dumped the body after injecting the vic with poison to wash away any trace evidence so we'd never connect it to him!"

The boys both snorted at this piece of ludicrousness and illogic.

"Dude, what the hell are you smoking?" Espo mocked.

"Yeah, really, Castle, that makes no sense," Ryan added.

Castle huffed and bridled. "It does too make sense," he insisted and proceeded to give a rambling explanation to justify his new theory.

Kate pointedly tuned out the explanation; she really didn't have time for Castle's nonsense and didn't know what the hell he was doing wasting so much of their tim—wait. Her irritated mental grumbling skidded to a halt.

Oh. Wait. She'd just seen… something. Something she suspected she hadn't been meant to notice at all. Castle, shooting her a quick glance, his eyes soft with… concern was the only word for it, an expression that was entirely at odds with the fact that he was still spouting his nonsensical theory.

All of Kate's annoyance abruptly died, replaced with something much softer.

Oh god. Oh, _Castle…_ She abruptly realized what he was up to, what he'd been doing these past couple days as he acted out.

The same thing he had done at Thanksgiving when her dad had tried her mom's apple pie.

He was providing a distraction. And she belatedly realized something else too, that he'd been providing coffee at even more frequent intervals than usual the last couple days. She hadn't thought, had only accepted the coffees as what he usually did. (When had she started taking his coffee for granted?) He hadn't said anything but he'd _noticed_ , she suddenly realized. He'd noticed that she hadn't been sleeping well and, more importantly, he'd remembered why she wouldn't sleep well this week.

This was why he'd been acting out. Distracting her so she couldn't dwell on the upcoming anniversary but also distracting the boys. She remembered the look the boys had just exchanged after she'd snapped at Castle. The boys, who knew that she was taking the upcoming Saturday off, even though it should have been one of her on-duty weekends. The boys, who knew (of course) why she always took That Day off and who tended to treat her with kid gloves during this week, a veiled, cop-like solicitude that irritated her and made her want to lash out at them that she wasn't a child and didn't need to be taken care of but refrained because it was usually only apparent in their looks and their tone but never in their words and picking a fight over something so subtle just couldn't go well. They hadn't done that this week, had in fact, paid little non-casework-related attention to her at all this week because, she realized, their attention had been focused on Castle, on giving Castle a hard time for his antics.

Oh, _damn_.

That impulsive, crazy, _thoughtful_ man! She didn't know what he was thinking, what kind of person deliberately set out to look ridiculous—except even as she thought it, she knew exactly what he was thinking. It was so… like him too. Misdirection and deflection—to distract her from dwelling on the last argument she'd had with her mom just a few days before her mom died, distract her from being haunted by the way she'd rolled her eyes at her mom and snapped at her mom the day before That Day. For the first time in years, she hadn't spent much time dwelling on painful memories. And it was because of him.

She felt absurd tears pricking at the back of her eyes. Oh, damn. She didn't do this sort of thing, couldn't admit in so many words how hard this week always was or what it meant to her that Castle would try to help her like this. But she had to do something.

She reached into her drawer and retrieved the elephant figurine she'd confiscated earlier, deliberately placing it back on her desk, closer to Castle than it usually was, tacit permission for him to play with it.

Her movement drew his attention, as she'd known it would, and there was a brief, almost imperceptible hitch in his flow of words as he glanced at her. She felt as if she should smile but could only manage a twitch of her lips. But he understood. She could see that he understood in the way his eyes softened.

Oh, this man! This man, who had spent the week doing what he could to make things easier. Make things easier _for her_ , a corner of her mind corrected, the voice sounding an awful lot like her dad's. _He cares about you, Katie…_

They were _friends_. That was all. And friends did that sort of thing, looked out for each other. (She ignored the fact that neither of the boys seemed to realize that tiptoeing around her this time every year didn't really help.)

Fine, he was a perceptive friend. That was all there was to it.

But she couldn't deny that a little tendril of warmth sprouted in her chest, that a little coil of the tension she always felt during this week loosened just a little…

It wasn't much, a small moment of grace, but in the bleakest week of the year, before the hardest day of the year, the small spark of light in the darkness meant everything.

It didn't—it couldn't—of course make That Day hurt any less, not really, but the week leading up to That Day, it did help.

She never slept well the night before, her dreams restless and filled with images of her mother's body, the imagined scenarios of her mom's murder. Her mom in a hurry, on her way to meet them for dinner, maybe rummaging in her purse for something. Her mom being grabbed and dragged into the alley, being stabbed. Her mom falling to the ground, bleeding out.

Kate flinched and tried to shut out the images, tried to stop thinking about it, with limited success.

She thought about Castle, deliberately called to mind the involved, almost giddily enthusiastic explanation he'd given a few days ago to explain his belief in Bigfoot, the way he'd pontificated about how even scientists like Jane Goodall accepted the existence of a so-called "apex primate." She's snapped at him at the time, told him if he couldn't say anything useful, he should just shut up. But today, today she remembered it—and found herself smiling even before she'd realized it. Just for a moment before she realized and the smile faded but it happened and the little flare of amusement thawed the inner chill.

And it did help. The one fleeting moment of relief carried her through the morning, carried her through the way to her mom's grave.

Kate bent to brush a few dead leaves, little debris, off the top of the tombstone—and then lingered, pausing to trace her finger over the letters of her mom's name. _Johanna Beckett…_ A watery little smile played across her lips as she suddenly remembered being a very little girl and the day she'd first realized that her parents had real names aside from "Mommy" and "Daddy." Could hear her dad's voice in her mind calling her mom's name; he had usually called her 'Jo' but he used her mom's full name to tease her sometimes (just like her mom used to drawl 'James' to tease her dad) or when he was annoyed or to make a point. She remembered overhearing a half-teasing back-and-forth exchange between her parents that had ended with her mom scoring a point and then saying, "I told you so," triumphantly, and the affectionate exasperation in her dad's voice as he'd responded, "Yes, Johanna. I get it, Johanna. Stop rubbing it in, Johanna." The deliberate repetition had made her mom laugh and ended the little spat effectively.

The thought, the memory, reminded her of another reason for her mom to say, I told you so, and she found herself saying, aloud, "Hi, Mom, guess what? Dad finally read one of Castle's books, the one supposedly based on me. He admitted that you were right and Castle actually is a good writer." She managed a small smile at the memory of her dad admitting that, the thought of how her mom would have reacted, but the smile faded a moment later. "Oh Mom, I wish… I wish you could meet Castle."

The words slipped out without thought. Wait, she did? And when had Castle become so important (to her) that she wanted her mom to meet him? He was her friend, her… colleague, of sorts, something like a partner, and she wanted her mom to meet him? She tried to tell herself it was only because he was a friend, even a good friend, but the explanation fell flat. She was friends with Lanie and the boys too and while she felt some vague, general regret that her mom had never met them, it wasn't this visceral sense of loss at the thought that her mom would never get to meet Castle. No, for Lanie and the boys, it was just part and parcel of the painful thought that her mom was no longer there, that her mom would never be there for anything that happened in Kate's life.

But this, when it came to Castle… It was different. It was stronger. It was personal. She _really_ wanted her mom to meet Castle. She wanted to know what her mom would have thought of Castle. Well, no, that wasn't strictly true; she already knew her mom would have liked Castle.

She suddenly remembered her mom defending her love of Castle's books one time after her dad had teased her about it. Her mom had said that she was sure Castle must be clever and creative to be able to write such good mysteries and that she guessed he had a good sense of humor because of the wit he displayed in his writing. Her mom, as usual, had been right, hadn't she? And yet, not… "Castle's different… more than you expected him to be from his books, Mom. He's…" He was—what? How could she possibly summarize what Castle was? "He acts like such a jackass sometimes, making wisecracks and joking around, and he drives me crazy at least half the time but then he can also be really… nice." Like playing the class clown to distract her from painful memories and keep the boys from irritating her with their well-meant but misplaced concern. Like the man she'd seen in the soup kitchen on Thanksgiving, the man she saw around Alexis.

"He just… he confuses me, Mom." And she almost resented it. Because if there was one thing Kate Beckett didn't enjoy, it was feeling confused. She was a smart, capable cop; she solved some of the city's toughest murder cases for a living. She didn't get confused or feel out of her depth. She was always in control. Except where Castle was concerned.

For a moment, she heard her mom's well-remembered laugh and her voice saying, _oh, Katie-bug, sometimes the fun is in not knowing._

What had her mom said that about—oh wait, she remembered now. Her younger self had been pouting over not being able to figure out how some magic tricks worked and her grandfather had refused to explain it to her. The young Katie had not been pleased (understatement) and had declared to her mom that she didn't like magic tricks anymore. And her mom's indulgent laugh…

 _Oh mom…_

She choked on a sob, feeling the ever-threatening tears well up and spill over, one tear rolling unromantically off the tip of her nose. "I miss you, Mom."

Because that was really it. She missed talking to her mom, the person she'd felt safest with, the person she'd first talked to about boys and everything else too. She wanted to talk to her mom about Castle, about how he got on her nerves and annoyed her more than just about anyone she knew but he also made her laugh in a way no one had in years. Wanted to talk to her mom about how he aggravated her and challenged her and had her alternately wanting to strangle him or kiss him and sometimes both at the same time.

Wait. What? The thought brought her up short. When had she started admitting that she wanted to kiss Castle at all? ( _You do, Kate. Admit it._ )

She felt herself flush. Okay, that part she would not want to talk to her mom about.

She shut her eyes for a moment, letting the chill of the air cool her heated cheeks. But even as she felt her flush fade, the realization—the admission—remained in her mind. She did want to kiss Castle. Wanted Castle.

It felt weirdly inappropriate that she was finally admitting as much to herself when she was standing in front of her mom's grave, after weeks (months?) of denying her own attraction to Castle. But maybe in a way, it was fitting too. Because here, with her mom, with how raw and exposed her emotions invariably were, was where she was always most honest. She never lied to her mom. Not now, not ever. (And she hadn't been very good at lying to her mom in life anyway as her mom had seemed to have a sixth sense that told her when Kate was lying.)

Yes, she did want Castle. And she liked him.

But it didn't matter because nothing was going to change.

She opened her eyes again, focusing on her mom's tombstone, the fatal date carved into the stone. She touched her fingers lightly to the tombstone in something like a caress, a silent goodbye to her mom, and then she turned and made her solitary way back home.

She hadn't been home for long when there was a knock on her door. Who on earth… She felt a flare of curiosity quickly followed by something like panic. Oh god. No, it couldn't be. Surely he wouldn't… _No one_ disturbed her today. No one. Not her dad (who was up at his cabin anyway, as he usually was today, and whom she would call later), not the boys (not that the boys were given to dropping by at all but they also knew better than to call or text), not Lanie. Not even Will, back when they'd been together.

Then again, it would hardly be the first time he barged in where he wasn't wanted and where no one else dared.

It wasn't him.

Or at least, not really.

It was a florist's delivery boy, who handed her a small pot of African violets.

There was a little card tucked in between the leaves. _For you. Just because. - RC._

She blinked back the ridiculous tears pricking at the back of her eyes, gently fingering the lush, deep purple of the petals. Was it only coincidence or had he somehow guessed that purple was her favorite color? Knowing him, she would put her money on the latter. She didn't know how he did it, wasn't even sure she liked how transparent she appeared to be to him, but she could hardly deny his perspicacity. He observed her, he _noticed_ things, and then extrapolated from them. And as much as she didn't really like to admit it, he was often right.

A memory flickered across her mind, his voice saying, _That tells me something happened… It was someone you cared about, someone you loved. And you probably could have lived with that but the person responsible was never caught…_

She blinked back the sudden tears pricking at the back of her eyes. Even back then, from the beginning, he'd noticed things and been right.

But this time, he hadn't intruded. Had only sent flowers, a silent gesture of support. And his note hadn't contained any of the more eloquent turns of phrase that she knew he was capable of. (He was a writer, after all, and tended towards drama and hyperbole.) Instead, the note had been almost terse in its brevity, the simple sincerity of it hitting her even harder than any more elaborate words would have.

She sent him a quick text message. _Thank you for the flowers._

His response came so quickly she knew he must have been playing with his phone, the mental image forming in her mind from so many days in the precinct and she felt a small flare of amusement and something softer flicker in her chest. _You're welcome._

For once, he wasn't joking, wasn't deflecting. He was being… himself, the real Rick Castle, more like the man she'd seen on Thanksgiving.

He was—she was—it was just… oh _damn_. He made it so hard to resist him sometimes. Resist the swell of warmth in her chest, the tug of emotion, that got tangled up with the tug of physical attraction, that near-gravitational pull exerted by his presence and his broad shoulders and his strong arms and his eyes and his smile and… ( _No._ _Stop. Not helping, Kate._ )

Because she had to resist.

Attracted or not (definitely attracted— _shut up!_ ), she still wasn't going to fall into bed with him.

Never mind that she was sure sex with Castle will be fantastic. Will be—wait. What? When had it become a foregone conclusion in her own mind that she and Castle would fall into bed together?

It wasn't going to happen.

Because no matter how much she wanted him (a lot— _shut up, not helping!_ ), she still couldn't see it turning out well. The sex wasn't the problem; the problem was that she couldn't imagine anything more than sex. Not really.

So it would be—what? Friends with benefits? A brief fling? A short-lived, dead-end affair that would be over when he lost interest and moved on, returning to his comfortable multimillionaire life?

She didn't do one-night stands or brief flings, certainly not with anyone she worked with on a daily basis. Hard enough to be a female cop (a young and attractive female cop at that; vanity aside, Kate had been the subject of too many come-ons and ogling glances not to be aware of her own looks) without throwing in the added complication of casual sex with co-workers. She was too realistic not to be aware of the damage it would do to her professional reputation and the respect she'd earned among other cops.

And she couldn't imagine a real relationship with Castle. Because he was Richard Castle and she was just a cop and, well, if there was one thing she knew about him, it was that when it came to women and relationships, he wasn't interested in real.

His ex-wives—Meredith, the over-the-top diva actress, whose every expression and every gesture and every word seemed to have been practiced in front of a mirror; Gina, the ever-poised businesswoman who looked as if she rolled out of bed with her face perfectly made-up and her hair perfectly coiffed. And she remembered the various women she'd seen Castle paired with over the years in Page Six and the occasional celebrity magazine, actresses, models, starlets, and celebutantes.

He might want her now but what if it was the thrill of the chase, the allure of what-he-didn't-have, a consequence of the way she'd turned him down on his offer to "debrief" after their first case and steadfastly shot down or ignored his other come-ons since then? What if the attraction between them was just physical, the kind that flared hot and bright and then died out once it had been consummated?

No, she couldn't imagine a real relationship with Castle. Or for that matter, imagine that he would be interested in one either.

Which left them right where they had always been, really.

Co-workers of a sort and friends.

 _He cares about you, Katie._

She looked at the violets he'd sent her, the card with his familiar handwriting.

And she liked him too. As more than just a friend, maybe, sort of, possibly. ( _Get a grip, Kate._ Was it possible to hear the voice in her head roll its eyes?)

Never mind. It didn't matter. Because he didn't do real.

And she couldn't take the risk.

* * *

And then she met Kyra Blaine.

 _~To be continued…~_

 _A/N 2: Now you see my plan for this sequel to "Thankful,"—a chance to play with "A Rose For Everafter" and, yes, "Sucker Punch." So, here we go… I hope it satisfies!_

 _As always, many, many thanks for reading and reviewing!_


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Now we're really getting into "A Rose For Everafter." I hope this chapter satisfies!

 **For All That You Are**

 _Chapter 2_

She wasn't jealous.

She wasn't jealous, Kate told herself, again, for possibly the thousandth time in the last few hours, ever since that moment in the hotel room where Castle had looked across the room and seen Kyra.

It wasn't jealousy. ( _No, it was hurt_ , a little voice in her mind spoke up. _Shut up, she wasn't hurt either._ )

She wasn't jealous because there was nothing to be jealous about. She and Castle were only friends. Really.

She tried to ignore the tight little knot of emotion that had formed inside her chest when she saw Castle with Kyra—or more accurately, saw the way he seemed to forget about the rest of the world when he saw Kyra and talked to her, the way he couldn't seem to tear his eyes off Kyra.

And yet… She felt rather as if the world had suddenly tilted a little beneath her feet, leaving her feeling oddly unsteady.

She had the sudden feeling of being invisible, or as if she were on one side of the two-way mirror in the interrogation room so she could see Castle but he couldn't see her. It was, she realized, probably the first time since they'd met that Castle paid no attention to her and barely seemed conscious of her presence.

Funny, it was only now when it was no longer hers, that Kate realized just how much Castle's attention had always been focused on her, realized the extent to which his notice, his gaze, his awareness had been hers. He seemed to have developed a sixth sense to tell him when she was starting to feel under-caffeinated and her every movement seemed to be able to draw his attention. It was just part of how he appeared to find everything she did interesting, the way he was apparently content to simply watch her doing paperwork or anything else. (For all that she teased him about creepy staring, it was oddly flattering too, although she hadn't realized it or admitted it until now.)

Or at least, that had been the case.

And now that his attention was no longer hers, she felt an odd pang of loss.

How was it that she'd never realized before how much it meant to her that whenever she glanced over at him, he was always looking right back at her?

And then as if that weren't enough, the emotion in Castle's eyes and his voice when he looked at Kyra or talked to her or about her was so clear, so strong, that it made Kate feel rather voyeuristic.

She didn't like it. She didn't like any of it.

Kyra was the one that got away.

The phrase revealed almost more than the look in his eyes, spoke volumes about how serious his relationship with Kyra had been, how much he'd once cared about—loved—Kyra.

A cold little shiver of an emotion Kate didn't care to identify wriggled through her at the thought.

She might have come to accept, believe, that Castle cared about her but clearly, he cared about Kyra too. (Cared about Kyra more?)

It would have been… easier… somehow, if she could write Kyra off as being another Meredith or another Gina, another pretty, plastic woman just like Castle's other previous conquests. But Kyra wasn't like that.

Kate hadn't spent much time with Kyra aside from the brief initial questioning and then the short elevator ride but it hadn't taken more than that for Kate to see that Kyra was different. She was real, for lack of a better word. Real, sincere, sweet. She didn't put on airs or otherwise seem artificial. And the fact that she pulled this off while wearing her wedding gown and full bridal hair and make-up just made it all the more obvious.

Not that it really mattered to Kate. Why should it matter to her what Castle's taste in women was when Kate and Castle were only friends?

( _Sure, keep telling yourself that, Kate._ )

Kate tried to push it all to the back of her mind. She didn't care. And she was in the middle of a case. Sophie Ronson deserved justice, as much as every other victim did. The wedding party needed to know, to be released from the odd sort of limbo they were in as no one could move forward with anything about the wedding until the case was solved.

Her focus was aided by the revelation that Sophie had bought roofies during the rehearsal dinner. Kate inwardly frowned. Roofies? Why?

Castle appeared to think the same thing. "You want to take advantage of a guy, knocking him unconscious kind of defeats the purpose. Best way, just ask."

Kate inwardly rolled her eyes. Typical Castle.

And then became aware that Castle had become distracted, his shoulders almost imperceptibly squaring as he tensed. What—

"Hello, Sheila," he greeted, a faint edge to his tone so it wasn't his usual friendly greeting.

The woman spun around, her expression immediately hardening.

Sheila—Kate remembered that was the name of Kyra's mother, who was something of a virago, or so Kate had guessed judging from the way Ryan's mouth had primmed up when he'd been reporting on the results of his interview with Sheila. And judging by Sheila's expression, she didn't like Castle at all. Understatement, actually, as she was regarding Castle rather as someone would regard a bug who'd gotten squished on their windshield.

"Richard. Figured you'd be at the heart of this mess."

Had she—she was all but accusing Castle of being somehow to blame for Sophie's murder ruining the wedding plans. Kate felt a flicker of annoyance at the illogic and the injustice of it. Virago was clearly right.

"Detective Beckett, this is Sheila Blaine, mother of the bride," Castle introduced with an attempt at his usual manner before adding, "So I guess I didn't end up homeless or teaching at a third-rate college in New Hampshire after all."

Kate almost choked. Was that what Sheila had predicted for Castle? Ouch.

"There's still time," Sheila retorted, not even trying to hide the venomous glee she felt at the thought.

Kate glanced at Castle to see the blow hit its mark, although he tried to hide it, and felt a sudden absurd urge to defend Castle. Stupid, ridiculous. He was a grown man (his frequent behavior notwithstanding) and he didn't need her defending him from words, in any case.

"I've missed our special talks," Castle tried to quip, although the riposte fell flat. "Sheila didn't approve of struggling artists," he explained to Kate, before addressing Sheila again, "You must like Greg, though. He's from money, right?"

"It was never about the money, Richard. It was about character. And you would know that, if you had any."

With which last parting shot, delivered with unhidden vitriol, Sheila stalked away.

Leaving Kate somewhat stunned at the woman's rudeness and, more, at the levels of her lingering disdain for Castle. What the hell was the woman's problem? Even if she'd disapproved of Castle as Kyra's boyfriend, that was years in the past. And Sheila was so very wrong about Castle, in any case. Castle had his faults but a lack of character wasn't among them. He was egotistical, impulsive, had an irritating habit of making wisecracks, but he was, at base, a good man. A good, kind man, with more depth of feeling and more capacity for thoughtfulness than Kate would have given him credit for even a few months ago but now couldn't deny. What the hell was Sheila's problem?

She glanced at Castle to see that, in spite of his attempt to look indifferent, clearly he wasn't.

Kate found herself wondering if Sheila was the reason Castle and Kyra had broken up in the first place, if that was the reason Sheila's words apparently still had the power to wound Castle.

"Just imagine, if things had worked out, you'd be spending Thanksgivings with her," Kate blurted out before she'd thought and then wondered if she was trying to make Castle feel glad that he and Kyra had broken up.

Castle gave an exaggerated, but sincere, shudder. "I'd rather spend Thanksgivings with your dad."

Kate tried not to choke, tried not to flush. He hadn't—she knew he hadn't meant anything by it. It was an off-hand comment, not anything more, no implications about her and Castle's relationship. And she _wasn't_ going to start over-analyzing every word he said to her like some teenage girl with her first crush. "From what I just saw of Sheila, that's not saying much," she managed to say dryly.

"Touché."

She was thankful that her phone rang, distracting her. "Beckett." It was one of the uniforms, reporting that hotel staff thought they'd located Mike Weitz. "Okay, great." She ended the call and turned back to Castle. "They think they found Mike. Come on."

He fell into step beside her but she was aware that even so, Castle was distracted, not engaged with the case, not as he usually was. She knew him; normally, he'd be speculating about what had happened to Mike and how it tied in to Sophie's murder. Today, he simply followed without speaking and a glance at him was enough to show the shadows in his expression, the abstraction in his gaze.

Thinking about Kyra—or rather, more likely, remembering things Sheila had said to him in the past. Dwelling on painful memories.

It was so… wrong to have Castle, the perennial man-child, the silly one, the optimist, looking so glum. She hated it. She suddenly wanted—needed—to see him smile and on an irrepressible impulse, found herself saying, "Sheila doesn't know you very well, does she? You do have character. Charlie Sliwinski and Agnes and Loretta would certainly attest to that," she added, referring to the director and two of the staff members at the soup kitchen they had gone to on Thanksgiving.

He turned to look at her, his eyes wide with some surprise and something softer than that, as if she had handed him a gift. His eyes were so blue and so bright and she felt a flutter of nervous butterflies form in her stomach, suddenly felt exposed as if all her confused thoughts and emotions had been stripped bare for him to see. And she quickly amended, "I mean, your character is mostly annoying, but you do have it."

He inclined his head to her in mock gratitude, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Why, thank you, Detective, I pride myself on it."

"You should be proud; you're very good at being annoying," she managed to quip, relaxing a little. Teasing, she could do.

That made him laugh, chasing the lingering shadows from his expression, and she felt a little sliver of joy wriggle through her—oh shit. She _cared about him_. Cared about him too much. This urge to make him smile, the absurd impulse to defend him from Sheila, the flutter of reaction to his laugh.

She felt a flare of panic. She couldn't do this.

Case. She had a case to focus on. She shoved any thoughts about unwanted feelings behind a padlocked steel door, taking refuge in her Detective Beckett persona. She was Detective Beckett, NYPD, calm, competent, controlled.

And she was just fine.

* * *

The next day, her hard-won resolve of indifference to Castle's feelings towards Kyra was tested yet again as the evidence of Sophie's missing earring led them straight to Greg, Kyra's fiancé.

Castle's bristling hostility was returned in full measure by Greg, the two radiating antipathy like two male stallions locked into the same pen.

She hadn't seen Castle so overtly hostile to a suspect in… she couldn't remember when, maybe ever. Castle's aggression impinged even on her jaded consciousness, making her aware of his physical presence in a way she normally wasn't, of the breadth of his shoulders, his height, his strength. (It made her wonder what it would feel like to be held by him, his strong arms wrapped around her, his body surrounding her— _shut up, Kate. Never going to happen_.)

And Greg's accusation that Castle just wanted to get back into Kyra's pants didn't help. Because she couldn't be sure it wasn't true. Castle's motivations were, for once, murky, and not helped at all by his clearly unresolved feelings for Kyra, his care for her, his protectiveness of Kyra. Something twisted inside her, her chest feeling tight, as if she couldn't quite take in a full breath.

The only interesting benefit of Castle's attitude was that it distracted Greg. Kate hadn't been seen as the softer touch in an interrogation in years, not since she'd been a rookie, but thanks to Castle's forcefulness, for once, she was.

But then Castle's aggression went a little too far and she had to kick him out, although she took advantage of being the "good cop" for once to grill Greg with pointed subtlety about his story of what had happened with Sophie that night. Which she wouldn't be inclined to believe, even if she weren't a professional skeptic, but short of any other evidence tying him to the crime, she had to cut him loose.

Only to be immediately challenged by Castle. "I can't believe you're letting him just walk out of here."

She pinned him with a look. "Yeah well, I don't have enough evidence to convict him."

He scoffed. "Don't tell me you believe that story! It's like a porn movie gone wrong."

But she wondered if Castle wouldn't have disbelieved any story Greg told, just because of who Greg was. Even so… "Exactly," she acknowledged, but its very incredibility made it more believable. "And if you were going to make up a story, would you make up something like that?" Most people went out of their way to make lies seem plausible.

"So the guy's a suit, not a storyteller. It doesn't make him any less guilty."

She felt a flicker of irritation. He was questioning her judgment now?

She tried to tamp down on her temper, temporizing, "Look, don't get me wrong; he's still our best suspect. I'm just not as ready to convict him of murder as you seem to be."

"But his story is ridiculous! And we have the evidence of Sophie's earring to tie him to her on the night she died! I don't see why you can't just hold him on that."

He _was_ questioning her judgment. She was suddenly angry. How dare he question the way she worked a case and her judgment about evidence? How dare he challenge her like this when he, of all people, knew that they built a case brick by brick, based on the evidence they had, not on what they wanted the evidence to be? How dare he insinuate himself into her work and her life, making her care, when at the first glimpse of his college sweetheart he could just drop her?

Oh, he made her so—god, she could just—he was infuriating! Arguing with her, going toe to toe with her over how she ran her case! No one challenged her authority on how she ran an investigation, with the occasional exception of Captain Montgomery and even he didn't dare do so often.

"Don't tell me how to do my job! One of us has to stay objective even if you can't!"

"Is that why you kicked me out of the interrogation?" he flared back.

"It was clear that I was going to get more out of Greg alone. You're lucky I'm not kicking you off the case entirely. You are clearly too close to this case!"

"You mean I'm too close to her," he challenged.

He was infuriating and she was furious, all her tamped down irritation at his mooning over Kyra coming to a head. "Yes! And you know how I know that? If you weren't, you'd be all over the possibility that Kyra could have killed Sophie." It was true; it was possible Kyra was the killer, she told herself. It was! (She didn't question why it was somehow so important to her to see if he could be objective enough to acknowledge it.)

"That's impossible!" he scoffed immediately.

His skepticism flicked on the raw. He, the one with the crazy theories, refusing to see the absolutely plausible scenario just because it implicated his former girlfriend! "See, that's not what Richard Castle would say," she retorted, a faint emphasis on his name. Richard Castle, purveyor of insane theories, always spinning some story to explain the facts. "He would paint a picture about the night before the wedding. About how Kyra couldn't fall asleep and so she went down to see Greg only to find Sophie emerging from his room. And the thought that her fiancé could cheat on her the night before their wedding was too much. And so she follows Sophie to her room and confronts her. And when things get violent, Sophie ends up dead."

She deliberately spun out the story, fleshing it out as much as she could. She hadn't read so many mysteries for nothing, pushed on to elaborate as rejection was written into every line of his expression, clear in the hardening of his jaw, the flint blue of his eyes. He wouldn't see it. He wouldn't acknowledge it as possible, his loyalty to Kyra absolute, as strong as his feelings for her obviously were, even after all these years. At any other time, Kate might have admitted that she liked his loyalty to the people he cared about, but right now, she hated it. Hated it because when it came down to a test of his loyalties, his loyalty to Kyra outweighed any loyalty he might feel for Kate, no matter that they were friends, no matter that they'd been working together for nearly a year now, no matter that he'd said she was extraordinary.

"Kyra did not kill Sophie! I think you're just jealous but trying to make Kyra out to be the murderer because of that is beneath you, Beckett."

"I am _not_ jealous!" She wasn't. She _wasn't._ And that certainly wasn't why she viewed Kyra as a possible suspect. How dare he accuse her of that?! "What I am is angry that your lack of objectivity where she's concerned could get in the way of this investigation. You have to stay away from her, Castle, until this case is closed!"

"Fine, I will," he retorted. "But you're wrong about Kyra," he added before stalking away. Damn the man for always needing to have the last word.

Kate let out an angry huff, storming off in her turn to update the murder board with a brief summary of Greg's story to fill in the timeline, her movements quick and forceful, practically attacking the white board with the marker.

She wasn't jealous. And she wasn't wrong about Kyra being a possible suspect, she told herself. It didn't matter that Kyra seemed so genuinely sweet. As Kate had long ago realized, everyone was capable of murder if sufficiently provoked.

(She tried not to dwell on the fact that Sophie had been several inches taller than Kyra was so it would have been awkward, even difficult, for the diminutive Kyra to strangle Sophie. Difficult but not impossible, she told herself firmly. Which was true. Rage and betrayal could fuel quite a lot of physical strength that a person might not otherwise be capable of generating. Kyra could have been the killer.)

Her words returned to her. _You have to stay away from her, Castle, until this case is closed._

After the case was closed, Castle could run off into the sunset with Kyra, live happily ever after and all that nonsense, she told herself. Really, he could.

But not until the case was closed. That was all that really mattered to her. Closing the case. And Castle getting too close to a possible suspect would complicate the investigation, create obvious conflicts of interest.

It wasn't like she wanted Kyra to be the killer. She didn't. Because if she were, Castle would be devastated, Kate knew that. She remembered the look on his face when they'd discovered that Scarlett Price, the call girl, had been playing him all along. And that hadn't been personal.

No, she didn't want Kyra to be guilty. She didn't want Castle to be hurt like that.

(Shit. She really did care about him. She was in so much trouble.)

She thought about the way Castle had sought out Kyra, found her in the ballroom. Left them in the middle of the investigation, which he had never done before.

He couldn't do that again, go rogue and interact alone with a possible suspect. With only their word about what they talked about, it could wreck the case at trial later on, if it came to that.

Without letting herself think about it, she quickly filled out the paperwork to have surveillance put in place on Greg and Kyra. It was necessary, she told herself. They were murder suspects, persons of interest. She had to make sure they didn't flee or otherwise do anything to try to conceal their guilt. Especially now that Greg had the wind up about the fact that they knew about his former relationship with Sophie.

She was doing her job. Really. That was all the surveillance of Kyra—and Greg—was about. Had nothing to do with… anyone else that either of them might meet.

She was doing her job. That was all.

 _~To be continued…~_

 _A/N 2: I really hate Sheila Blaine._

 _Thanks, everyone, for reading and reviewing!_


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: I have to admit that I love this chapter and think it came out really well, if I'm allowed to say such a thing. Fair warning that it's rather long (I blame my verbosity on Castle).

 **For All That You Are**

 _Chapter 3_

What was he doing?

What was he doing, going out to meet Kyra at this hour of the night? What was he doing, going out to meet Kyra at this hour of the night, after he'd told Beckett that he would stay away from Kyra until the case was closed?

Castle only wished he knew.

He didn't. Didn't know anything.

He was confused. To put it mildly.

Felt torn, conflicted, just… confused. Felt as if his emotions had been put on a Tilt-a-whirl and now he was dizzy and unable to see straight as the world tilted and shifted around him like a crazy kaleidoscope.

Because this was Kyra, the first woman he'd ever really loved, the first serious adult relationship he'd had. Kyra, who he still cared about, a lot. And just the sight of her had brought back a flood of memories and emotions, until it was almost as if he was the boy he'd once been, the boy who'd been so in love with Kyra and wanted to spend his entire life with her.

But then there was Beckett—Kate. The woman who had become his friend—a good friend—over the last few months, who was, he thought, starting to soften towards him. The woman whom he'd been falling for since pretty much the moment they'd met. The woman who inspired him like no one else he'd ever known. Beckett, who challenged him and awed him with her cleverness and her determination in the precinct every day. The softer Kate he'd seen at Thanksgiving, the one who talked and laughed with his daughter, the one with the soft eyes and easy smile he'd seen at the soup kitchen. The one who'd said that he made her work more fun and who was thankful for him. (Had any woman who wasn't related to him ever been _thankful_ for his presence in her life?)

Was it possible to be in love with two different woman at the same time? He didn't know. He wouldn't have thought it was possible, not for him. He wasn't cut out like that. For him, it was all or nothing. When he loved, he loved whole-heartedly.

But then how to explain the way his heart reacted, throbbed, at the sight of Kyra, as all the years fell away until all he could remember was that this was Kyra, whom he'd loved so much?

And yet… And yet, there was also Beckett and the magnetism of her that drew him in. The sight of her teasing smile, the sound of her laugh, the way he never felt more alive than in those moments when they were on the same wavelength.

What was he doing?

He stared out the window of the cab, recognizing the familiar landmarks as they neared Washington Square, the streets and buildings he remembered so well from his college days. He saw college kids, moving in pairs and small groups, along the sidewalks, and he could immediately picture himself and Kyra, in the days from when that old picture he'd kept in his notebook for _A Rose For Everafter_ had been taken. Pictured them, walking the sidewalks hand in hand or with Kyra tucked into the circle of his arm. Pictured them stopping at a crosswalk stop signal and him taking advantage of the moment to wrap his arms around her and nuzzle her hair, her ear, making her giggle and turn her head to kiss him…

Oh yes, he remembered everything.

Remembered the first day in Astronomy class in his junior year and her freshman year and noticing the cute girl in the third row from the front, wearing a simple white and blue striped shirt and navy skirt. Their eyes had met and he'd quirked a semi-flirtatious smile at her, which she'd returned with a small, rather shy smile of her own. And he'd been smitten.

By the first week, he was asking silly questions in class just to make her smile.

By the first month, they were study buddies.

By the second month, they were dating.

By the time the semester ended, almost four months later, he was head over heels in love for the first time in his life. (His writer's mind had always secretly thrilled over the fact that he could say they'd literally fallen in love while gazing at the stars.)

By the time they'd been dating for two months, they were inseparable in that giddy, all-consuming way of first love in the honeymoon period.

By the time they'd been dating for six months, he'd been honestly thinking about marriage. (But then she'd mentioned that she thought it was a Jurassic institution, old-fashioned and unnecessary. He'd revised his planning accordingly, hadn't cared about a piece of paper as long as they still spent the rest of their lives together.)

By the time their one year anniversary had rolled around, he'd met her mom. That had not gone well. Understatement. Sheila had hated him. She had been very polite—oh yes, she'd been polite, then—but very cold and very clear that a boy, who didn't know his father's name and had little more than some big dreams to his own name, wasn't good enough, would never be good enough, for Kyra. Cold and cutting as she punctured his pride and his confidence with surgical precision. (For years afterwards, the voice of his own self-doubt would speak in Sheila's voice, whenever he wondered if he could really make a living as a writer, whenever he had one of those days where everything he wrote seemed like crap.)

But he'd been young and in love and on top of the world since _In a Hail of Bullets_ had just been published a couple months earlier and hit the bestseller list (and stayed on it for a full 10 weeks, unprecedented for a first book by a kid who hadn't graduated college yet.)

By the time their two-year anniversary had rolled around, he'd graduated college and finished _A Rose for Everafter_ and Black Pawn had given him a contract for a third book. And he and Kyra were still in love, still inseparable—still headed for forever, as he'd believed.

They had had a perfect, idyllic summer together after he'd graduated. She'd been taking summer classes but they had spent basically every moment together outside of class. Studying (on her part) and writing (on his), wandering the City together, talking, and… not talking. (There'd been a lot of not-talking…)

It had probably been the best, happiest summer of his entire life. With the possible exception of a couple summers he'd spent with Alexis when she'd been little, after Meredith and before Gina, just him and his little girl, bestest buddies, as Alexis had used to say.

God. It suddenly, belatedly occurred to him that when he and Kyra had been together, Alexis hadn't been born yet. (He hadn't even met Meredith yet.)

It had been so long ago, those years with Kyra. He was honest enough to admit that he hadn't thought of Kyra much in years. But now, seeing her again—still pretty, still sweet—the memories came flooding back. And the feelings too. How deeply he'd loved her, how much it had hurt when she'd left.

He and Kyra had had their one last, halcyon summer and then her junior year had started that fall and he'd thought they were perfectly happy together, still in love, still planning for their lives together. And then—the break. Kyra had told him that she'd been accepted at and decided to spend the next semester abroad in London. And that she needed some time, some space. To think about her life, to think about them. He hadn't been happy but he'd accepted it, had told her he understood, and promised to write reams of letters, joking about sending her epic poems about her eyes or sonnets about her eyebrows or odes about her smile. She'd said no; when she'd said she needed time and space, she'd meant it. And still he'd accepted it, still believed that they would last forever, that he just needed to wait and she'd contact him and they would have their forever.

It had taken two months after she'd left before he'd started to think otherwise although he'd stubbornly clung to hope.

It had taken five months before he'd finally accepted that it was really and truly over, that Kyra didn't want him anymore. Because after five months, he'd known her semester abroad would have ended and she would be back in the States, back in New York. She would have been back and she hadn't contacted him, hadn't sought him out. And his heart had been broken for the first time in his life (and sadly not the last.)

It had taken another four months after that before he'd stopped thinking about Kyra every day, missing her. Helped by the fact that his mother had introduced him to a new cast-member in her then-play, a young, fun, flirty redhead, with whom he'd thrown himself into a relationship. He recognized now, with the benefit of hindsight, that he'd gotten involved with Meredith on the rebound, which wouldn't have boded well for their relationship anyway.

And of course, then had come Alexis. Alexis, who'd made up his whole world from the day she was born.

And he hadn't forgotten Kyra exactly, but he had stopped thinking about her.

Until the day before when he'd walked into the hotel room and looked across the room and seen her. And the years and the rest of the world had fallen away and it had all come back to him.

Did he—was it possible he still loved Kyra?

He honestly didn't know—and the fact that it was even a question confused him even more.

Because how was it possible? He had loved two women since then, married twice, divorced twice. He'd had a daughter—his amazing, perfect daughter—and raised her. And in all those years, he really hadn't been pining for Kyra.

But to see her again, talk to her—and it was so much like it had been then.

(And a small corner of his writer's mind thrilled at the idea because if this was how he and Kyra reconnected and got back together, with him walking into her wedding after it was postponed by a murder—what a story that would make!)

He knew he cared about her, wanted her to be happy. He would never want to hurt her or have her be hurt. He hadn't been able to refuse her when she asked to meet him, hadn't been able to say no when he'd heard the note of vulnerability as she'd said "please." His heart had reacted, his chest filling with emotion—and he'd agreed.

And he thought, maybe he did, after all, still love Kyra. The protectiveness, the concern swelling in his chest—it was all very familiar.

The cab slowed for a turn and his heart momentarily stuttered at the sight of a woman's back—tall and slim, with short brown hair brushing her shoulders. Beckett. And then the woman turned and of course it wasn't Beckett.

 _You have to stay away from her, Castle, until this case is closed._

He'd agreed—but then Kyra had called.

He inwardly squirmed. Why did he feel like he was cheating on Beckett? Or about to, sneaking out at night to meet up with another woman. (He wasn't _sneaking_ anywhere. He was a grown man who had left his loft openly and his mother knew all about it. Ugh, that thought didn't help anything.)

It was ridiculous because he and Beckett weren't… anything. Not really. (Not yet.)

(But he wanted them to be _something_. Didn't he?)

At that somewhat inopportune moment, the taxi turned onto a very familiar block and he straightened. "This is fine. Just let me off here."

He paid and then stepped out onto the sidewalk, looking up at the top of the hotel, towards the rooftop where he suspected Kyra would already be waiting.

"Their" roof. They'd met Kyra's mom and some other relatives in the hotel restaurant where his finer feelings had been lacerated by Sheila (again) and afterwards he'd pulled Kyra with him into a hallway, tugging her into his arms, so she could blot out Sheila's opprobrious words with the press of her body and the touch of her mouth—only to be interrupted by a hotel staff person pushing a cart. They'd broken apart giggling and set out to find an actual private spot, which was surprisingly difficult in a hotel when they didn't have access to any of the rooms, and then they'd found the roof. (They had "christened" the roof immediately that first day.) And it had become their secret spot. And in all the time they'd spent there, they'd never been interrupted. Which was what had made it such a perfect place to meet.

He found himself wondering (insanely) what his and Beckett's special place was, would be—and then caught himself. He and Beckett didn't have a special place because they weren't a couple. He just wanted them to be. (Didn't he?)

A blast of cold wind abruptly made him realize he was standing on the sidewalk like an idiot and he shivered and hurried inside.

( _Sorry, Beckett._ )

Ugh, he hated feeling so confused, so uncertain of his own feelings! For a moment, he felt an irrational flare of resentment at Kyra, or at Beckett—he didn't even know which—for turning him inside out like this. What was it with women, why couldn't they just be straight with him, so he knew what he was feeling? (Great, now he wasn't making any sense even to himself.)

He mentally shook himself. No more of this. He would just see Kyra, talk to her. As a friend, he assured himself. Because that was what she needed. She was engaged still, after all, to Greg. So she needed a friend. And that was all he would be.

As for Beckett—he would figure that out later.

He made his way through the hotel, his feet following the well-remembered way, turning a corner on the top floor, up the staircase, and then trying the door. Still unlocked.

He was greeted with a rush of cold air as he stepped out onto the roof. (And this would be why he and Kyra had only spent the summer here.)

Kyra turned and gave him one of her small, half-teasing smiles. "How did you know the door would still be unlocked after all these years?"

He shrugged a little as he walked over to join her by the edge. "Some things never change." And then wondered if the words could be taken to refer to more than the door. That his feelings for her had never changed…

Kyra looked around the rooftop, a soft, reminiscent look on her face. "We spent so much time up here that summer. You would come over after I got out of class, bag of food in one hand and that notebook in the other."

"And then I would write and you would pretend to study," he finished for her teasingly.

Kyra sputtered in mock offense. "I wasn't pretending!"

He grinned at her skeptically. "Oh?" He had vivid memories of all the times she'd distracted him from his writing, times she'd confiscated his pen and teasingly dropped it down her shirt so he simply had to undo her clothes to retrieve his pen and it really wasn't his fault that he'd always ended up, well, forgetting about his pen entirely.

"Okay, well, I just had a hard time keeping my hands off of you."

The words, the admission, seemed to charge the air between them. His mind flooded with memories of just that, the touch of her hands, the press of her body, the heat of her mouth against his—and he felt an errant flicker of desire.

Shit. No. She was engaged. And he was her friend, that was all.

He shifted uncomfortably. "Does Greg know you're here?" he asked, deliberately mentioning her fiancé as if to conjure up his presence, a reminder and a barrier.

Kyra looked away, her expression changing. Something tugged on his heart. "He told me about Sophie in his room. About him and Sophie before," she said instead, not answering his question. And he supposed that alone was answer enough. "He said he was sorry he didn't tell me."

Castle found he couldn't summon up any of his earlier hostility to Greg, the hostility that had made him almost gloat at the very unbelievability of his story. It was all subsumed in a wave of concern. And for the first time, Castle thought he wanted Greg's story to be true, wanted Greg to be innocent. Because of what it would do to Kyra if he was lying. "Do you believe him?"

She didn't answer, only sighed a little, suddenly looking small and very young, as if she were the girl he'd known and loved years ago.

"I just don't want to see you get hurt," he said gently. And that was the truth. He might not be sure what he still felt for Kyra but whatever it was, he knew he didn't want her to be hurt.

"Mm. Too late," she answered simply.

He was suddenly struck with how… easy this was. How openly Kyra admitted to having been hurt, how unguarded her expression was, allowing him to see her doubts and her pain.

Kyra wasn't Beckett. With Kyra, there was no need to tiptoe around, no need to subtly pry to wangle out confidences, no need to guess what was on her mind. With Kyra, he could just offer straightforward comfort, unhidden concern.

But that was Kyra; she was open-hearted, trusting. It was how she'd been raised and how she still was. She'd been sheltered, happy. As far as he knew, her life had never been shadowed by any real tragedy. Her parents were divorced, yes, but he'd always thought that was just an inevitable result of marriage to a termagant like Sheila. Kyra hadn't seen her dad that often, just a couple times a year, since he didn't live in New York but he'd doted on Kyra when Kyra did see him and he'd called her often and unfailingly sent gifts for every birthday, every Christmas. Admittedly, having a mother like Sheila had not been a walk in the park since even to Kyra, whom Sheila supposedly loved (okay, he was being unfair, Sheila did love Kyra in her own way), Sheila was not exactly warm and cuddly but Kyra had received all the warmth, sympathy, and understanding any child needed from her grandparents, her grandmother especially. (Castle idly wondered what had happened to Celia; he'd grown rather fond of that dame.)

Yes, Kyra was open. She was… easy. So unlike the other woman he'd spent so much time with lately.

His thoughts were distracted as Kyra shivered in another blast of cold wind. And on automatic impulse, partly from the force of habit of years past, Castle opened his arms and she stepped into his embrace, her head neatly fitting in beneath his chin.

She was… short. Inane thought. She'd always fit against him like this, the top of her head only coming to his shoulder. He was suddenly, bizarrely reminded of holding Alexis, the thought abruptly killing any last shred of desire he might feel on holding Kyra again.

He had a flash of memory of Beckett stepping in close to him, of how she was nearly as tall as he was when she was wearing her ubiquitous heels, so all she needed to do was close the distance between them to brush her lips against his cheek.

The scent of lavender tickled his nostrils—Kyra still used the same shampoo, he thought, had the same well-remembered scent.

It was all familiar and it was all… wrong. The wrong scent, the wrong height, the wrong shape. The wrong woman.

"I missed you, Rick. And I didn't realize how much until I saw you yesterday."

He drew back just enough to meet her eyes, his chest filling with fondness. Yes, this was Kyra, soft and sweet and pretty, and he still cared about her. "I missed you too."

Their eyes met and held and then her gaze fell to his mouth and she was lifting her face and somehow, without his having any clear idea how it happened, they were close enough that their noses almost brushed, their lips a mere inch apart—but then he turned his head so her lips touched his cheek.

"Kyra, no, we can't," he said gently, drawing his head back. "You're engaged and I'm… in love with someone else," he finished slowly, the words coming surprisingly easily from his lips given that he hadn't even thought them to himself until now.

For the first time in more than 24 hours, since he'd seen Kyra again, he felt his head clear, his world righting itself. A compass that had found its true north and stopped spinning.

And he knew what he wanted. He wanted the scent of cherries. Wanted the razor-sharp intellect that challenged him, the sardonic wit that tickled him, the well-concealed flashes of vulnerability that tugged at his heart. The tall, slim body that he just knew would fit perfectly against his. The sparse smiles that beguiled him. The laughs that lifted his heart and tingled down his spine. He wanted the challenge, the mystery, even the sharp edges. Wanted to be kept on his toes and teased and inspired and fascinated.

He wanted Kate Beckett.

And it was crazy to come to the realization when another woman was in his arms but somehow, that was when he knew with sudden, blinding clarity that the only woman he wanted to kiss was Kate Beckett.

He looked at Kyra now and it was suddenly so clear, no more confusion. Kyra and Beckett. The two women slotted into the correct spots, their rightful spots in his heart, in his life.

He had loved Kyra but what he felt for her now was not love, but rather nostalgia and lingering affection masquerading as more. Made all the more powerful, he realized, because he had never gotten any closure when it came to their relationship. He had still loved Kyra when she left him, still loved her even when he accepted that it was over. He'd never fallen out of love with Kyra. It wasn't like it had been with Meredith or with Gina where his love for them had faded and ultimately vanished by the time the relationships ended, eroded away because of infidelity and Meredith's corrosive selfishness and failures as a mother in Meredith's case and because of constant sniping and lingering arguments in Gina's case.

Kyra had lingered in his memory as, yes, the one that got away. The memory he returned to at occasional moments when reality dissatisfied, the fantasy of the one perfect, lost love.

He had loved Kyra as the boy he'd been in college but he wasn't that boy anymore. He had loved again, been married, been betrayed, been used, been divorced. He had had a daughter and raised her alone.

And he was in love with Kate Beckett as the man he now was, loved her in a way that he had probably not been capable of loving Kyra back when he was in college, before his heart had been broken (more than once), before he had become a father and experienced that sort of instantaneous, all-encompassing, entirely selfless devotion that was a parent's love for his child.

Kyra let out a breath and then gave a faint smile. "You're in love with your detective, aren't you." It wasn't a question.

His detective. He huffed something like a laugh at her phrasing. God, he wished! "Yes," he admitted plainly, now, belatedly, feeling his heart start to clatter in his chest at the admission. (Why now? Silly organ. Better save the energy for more important things. Like not dying when Beckett shot him for this meeting with Kyra.)

Surprisingly, Kyra gave a small laugh. "I knew it. Or at least, I think I did, from the moment I read the Nikki Heat book, that dedication."

He smiled a little. "I guess you still know me that well, huh?"

She grinned at him, her arms falling from around him as she took a small step back so she could more easily see his face. "You haven't changed that much. You're still you, Rick."

"Brilliant insight," he teased.

She laughed and prodded his shoulder in one of her old gestures and then sobered. "She seems nice."

He gave a crack of laughter. Nice! Of all the words to describe Beckett, 'nice' was not really one of them; it was too bland a word. "She's _something_ ," he acknowledged with a quirk of his lips. "She's…" he trailed off, lifting one shoulder into a half-shrug to express the inability to really capture Beckett in just a few words. _The most incredible person he'd ever met._ He couldn't say that to Kyra.

"Extraordinary?" Kyra supplied with a little smile.

Right, the dedication. He returned her smile. "Yeah, she's extraordinary. She drives me crazy about half the time but…"

"But you wouldn't have it any other way," she finished knowingly. "I always say the same thing about Greg."

The name made the smile drop off her face, the mood abruptly changing, as she turned away to look out over the city, blinking rapidly.

He turned too, leaning against the wall, and slung a comforting arm around her shoulder. They were still friends and he still cared about her, probably always would to an extent.

"What happens now, Rick?" she asked quietly after a moment. "We just have to wait, not knowing anything, in limbo, until we find out what happened? I can't…" she stopped and swallowed and then finished shakily, "I can't marry Greg until I know. But what if—what if this goes on for weeks, months? I've read your books, Rick. What if it takes weeks?"

He sighed and tightened his arm around her. "It won't take that long," he promised, knowing even as he said it that he shouldn't be promising any such thing. He grimaced and switched tacks to what he could say with certainty. "Beckett's the best cop in the city. If anyone can figure it out, it's her."

Kyra gave a sudden, brief laugh and he blinked at her in surprise. "What's so funny?"

She shook her head a little, still smiling. "You call her Beckett and she calls you Castle. What is it with you two and the last names? Rick isn't good enough for you anymore?"

He grinned. "It's a cop thing; everyone at the precinct goes by their last names. You'll get used to it, Blaine," he joked.

She gave a brief, half smile. "It was supposed to be Murphy by now," she responded, sobering.

He suppressed a sigh. They couldn't get away from it, everything brought them back to her wedding that hadn't happened, understandably so. He was just thankful that he knew Kyra well enough that they could talk about it so freely, openly. She was, still, easy to talk to, easy to be with.

(Funny, when had 'easy' stopped being a good thing?)

"I'm sorry," he settled for saying.

She made a small face, pressing her lips together in a way he recognized, before she looked up at him. "We only have Greg's word for what happened between him and Sophie that night."

He inwardly winced. Yeah, he wanted Greg to have been telling the truth. "Yes," he acknowledged reluctantly but then added, remembering Beckett's words, "But most people making up a story would make up a more believable one than that." Beckett, as usual, had a point. (Not about Kyra's involvement; that he couldn't believe, but about Greg, yes.)

"But we still might never really _know_ , even if you and the police find out who killed Sophie."

That was true too. Greg could have slept with Sophie that night and then Sophie could have left him and ended up murdered by someone else, maybe someone else who had seen her leave. And, well, dead men and women told no tales.

He couldn't say that to Kyra. "You'd be surprised what cops can find out in their investigations," he temporized instead. It wasn't untrue.

She looked up at him, meeting his eyes squarely. "What do you think, Rick?"

Damn it. He'd forgotten how direct Kyra could be. "I think… it comes down to trust. You know Greg, know what he's like. Do you think he's the kind of person who would do something like that, who could make up a story like that?" The kind of person to cheat on her the night before their wedding and then make up an unbelievable story about it. The kind of person who would commit a murder and then be able to coolly prepare for his wedding the next day as if nothing had happened.

He forcibly didn't say that any man who cheated on Kyra was an idiot. It might be true but it wouldn't help.

He waited as she turned to look out over the city lights again, recognizing her thoughtful silence. And after a minute, she looked back up at him. "No, I don't think he is." She paused and then added, more quietly, a vulnerable expression crossing her face, "But I don't _know_. And I don't know how to get past this."

He sighed again and stepped forward to give her a brief hug. "It's the shock, Kyra," he said gently. "If you trust Greg, once this is cleared up, it'll be okay. You'll trust him again." God, he hoped he wouldn't turn out to be lying. He hoped Greg was innocent. Innocent of cheating on Kyra and innocent of murder. He couldn't stand the thought of what it would do to Kyra if Greg weren't. He knew what it was like to be cheated on and he'd never, ever, wish that on Kyra. And he suddenly remembered the Eliska Sokol case, the way Melissa Talbot had broken down when she'd learned what her husband had done. He inwardly flinched. No, he couldn't stand the thought of Kyra looking like that.

"Beckett will find out who killed Sophie," he promised. "Trust me."

She gave a watery little laugh. "Don't you mean 'trust her'?"

He shrugged. "Okay, trust both of us then."

"If she's anything like Nikki Heat, then I definitely do."

"She's better than Nikki Heat," he said confidently. "And believe me, I know whereof I speak."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Oh, you know whereof you speak, hmm?" she parroted his old-fashioned phrasing back at him, teasingly. As she usually had before.

"I'm a writer," he retorted immediately. Again, as he used to do.

She smiled. "Yeah, you really are." And that was veering from their old script. She laughed a little. "You did it, Rick. You made it, just like you said you would."

He made the facial equivalent of a shrug. "Hey, I'm too stubborn to give up."

She gave him one of her old, wide-eyed, curious looks. "So is it everything you thought it would be, being a famous bestselling author?"

Funny, no one had really asked him that before. But then again, Kyra was one person who'd known him before he'd become the famous bestselling author, was the one he'd talked to about his dreams of becoming just that. "It kinda is," he answered after a moment. It was true, to a point. The fans, the ease of getting women, the glitzy parties, meeting celebrities, the sycophants, all that was what he'd expected. He hadn't, quite, expected the other side of it—how it would become so hard to find anyone who would be honest with him, how everyone would be interested in him for his money or his fame or his connections (or fine, his looks) but no one would really be interested in him just for _him_.

No one—until Beckett. And that was why he loved her. Not the only reason, of course not, but a big one. Because he knew Beckett and whatever else, she was real and she demanded nothing less from him and with her, he could just be himself. Or rather, he was the better version of himself that he was around her—a man who was less impulsive and more thoughtful, less a jackass and more sincere, a man who'd become better because of her. She didn't want the playboy (she definitely didn't); she didn't want the famous celebrity (she hated even her little bit of fame for being the inspiration for Nikki); she didn't want the rich, eligible bachelor (she didn't care about his money); she didn't want his connections (she'd reamed him out for using his friendship with the Mayor to jump the line at the lab). If—oh god, _if_ —she grew to care about him, it would be for himself.

It suddenly occurred to him that Beckett was the first woman since, well, Kyra, that he could say that about with absolute confidence.

Kyra shot him a rather sly smile. "I've read about you in the papers; it seems you're everyone's favorite ladies' man. You've had a lot of fun, haven't you, Rick?"

He made a self-deprecating face. "Guilty as charged, but in my defense, a lot of what's in the papers is exaggerated. I haven't been partying every day or even every week; I've had my daughter to take care of too."

"Oh, that's right. You have a daughter. I'd… forgotten," Kyra gave a little abashed laugh. "The papers never really mention her and she's only been in a few of the pictures from your book parties."

"Yeah, I've tried really hard to protect Alexis from all that. It's good to know it worked."

Kyra's smile widened. "What's she like?"

He relaxed and grinned, feeling a spurt of joy, as always, at the thought of Alexis. "She's amazing, as close to perfect as humanly possible."

She laughed. "And you're not biased at all."

"I am biased, but it doesn't make it untrue."

"Do you have pictures?"

He scoffed. "Do I have pictures? The better question is, how much time do you have because once I get started, I could talk about Alexis for hours."

She grinned. "I don't have that much time but I do want to see some pictures, let's say, 10, just to pick a nice, round number."

He smiled and pulled out his phone. "Ten pictures of Alexis, it is," he agreed as he pulled up his brag book. And proceeded to do just that, regaling Kyra with stories of Alexis at her most precocious and most adorable while showing Kyra pictures of Alexis laughing with his mother; Alexis waving a fork at him as she lectured him about his unhealthy eating habits; Alexis in her laser tag vest; Alexis talking to Beckett on Thanksgiving, her expression earnest (he still didn't know what Alexis had been saying to Beckett); Alexis playing her violin; Alexis carving a pumpkin with him last Halloween; Alexis eating ice cream and mock scowling at him because he'd just deliberately smeared chocolate frosting on her nose.

"She's adorable, Rick."

He beamed. "Thank you; I think so too."

Kyra laughed a little and nudged him with her elbow as they both turned by unspoken agreement towards the door. "It's obvious you adore her, Rick. I had no idea you'd turn into such a dad."

"Honestly? I didn't know either," he answered frankly, holding the door open for her to precede him inside, the warmth very welcome. "But somehow, the first time I saw her, it just happened. And Alexis made it easy because she really is great."

"I'm glad, Rick." She glanced up at him. "It suits you, you know, being a dad."

"Being Alexis's dad is the best thing I've ever done."

She threw him a half-sly, half-teasing sideways glance. "A word of advice from a woman, Rick, let your detective see you as a dad with your kid often. It'll help."

He wrinkled his nose as he frowned slightly. "I don't think Beckett's like that, like one of those women who'd be all flirty when they saw me with Alexis at the playground." He didn't like those women much, too obviously insincere, too willing to use Alexis. He was surprised Kyra would suggest such a thing.

She waved a hand. "That's not what I meant, Rick. What I meant was that you haven't seen your face when you talk about Alexis. You just light up and it's just _you_ , if that makes sense. The you I remember," she added more quietly.

Oh. And that was the Kyra he remembered too. Sweet but with a way of getting to the heart of things. "Good to know. Thank you, Kyra."

She smiled and linked her arm companionably with his as they walked. "Your detective's a lucky woman."

 _Your detective._ She'd said it again. (He really loved how Kyra referred to Beckett as his detective. Never mind that Beckett herself would probably shoot him if he ever did the same.)

"I'm not sure she'd agree," he joked. "I'm pretty good at annoying her."

He remembered Beckett teasing him after they'd run into Sheila. Beckett had been trying to make him laugh. As someone who spent a good portion of his time trying to do the same for Beckett, he recognized the tactic when he saw it. And he couldn't help the hope sprouting up inside him.

Kyra laughed. "I'm sure you drive her crazy but you know that might not be a bad thing."

"Maybe not." Provided he drove her crazy in the right way—and he still wasn't sure about that. He thought about their argument at the precinct a couple hours ago-no, that hadn't been his finest moment. Had he really accused Beckett of making Kyra out to be a murder suspect just because she was jealous? God, he was an ass. He might have been angry but he knew Beckett wouldn't do that. He'd just been so twisted up and turned around over Kyra and Beckett and Beckett's suggestion that Kyra could have killed Sophie had set off the explosion that had already been smoldering from the interrogation of Greg and getting kicked out of it. He was going to need to grovel.

"I might have said something stupid," he admitted. "We… argued earlier."

Kyra looked stricken. "Over me?"

Shit, he'd forgotten how insightful Kyra could be. "No," he answered forcefully and somewhat less than truthfully. But he was not going to tell Kyra what their argument had been about. "We were arguing over our next step in the investigation," he fibbed. It wasn't, exactly, a lie.

"Oh." Thankfully, she looked as if she accepted that. "Well, just tell her you're sorry. If she's as good as you say, she'll understand. Friends can still argue, just like couples do."

"Yeah, you're right."

"Of course I'm right," Kyra quipped.

They had reached the front lobby of the hotel and he held the door open for her again and then raised a hand to hail a cab for her. She turned to face him. "Thank you, Rick, for coming out. It helped."

He smiled, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I'm glad."

A cab pulled up and she gave him a quick hug. "I really have missed you, Rick."

"Me too." He released her and opened the cab door. "Get some sleep."

She made a face. "I'll try." She managed a small smile for him. "Good night, Rick."

"Night."

He stood on the pavement and watched for a moment as her cab eased out into the traffic. Kyra Blaine. He was suddenly very glad that fate had let them reconnect like this. Now he knew, now he had closure.

He cared about Kyra, probably always would. But whatever he'd once had with Kyra was over, in the past.

Now, he was in love with Kate Beckett. Beckett, who was his present and would be his future. He hoped. (Oh god.)

It occurred to him that he was doomed.

 _~To be continued…~_

 _A/N 2: Apologies for the lack of Beckett in this chapter but obviously, she'll be back._

 _Thanks, as always, for reading and reviewing._


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: For all those who were looking forward to this, I give you jealous Beckett. Enjoy.

 **For All That You Are**

 _Chapter 4_

By the time the next morning rolled around, Kate was repenting her impulsive decision to order surveillance on Kyra and Greg.

She shouldn't have done it. Objectively speaking, neither Greg nor Kyra were likely suspects for trying to make a run for it, the circumstances of staying in a hotel surrounded by friends and family for what should have been their wedding made it unlikely.

It wasn't, quite, a total waste of police resources. She could justify it if she had to. Greg was their best suspect so far and he might panic and slip up in some way, incriminating himself. And Greg being brought in for questioning was going to be widely known by the entire wedding party, amplified by the forces of rumors about the discovery of Sophie's earring in his room, so even if Greg hadn't done it, the killer _might_ choose to act to implicate Greg further. Surveillance on Kyra was… on shakier grounds. She had to admit it. Oh, as she'd said to Castle, it was _possible_ Kyra had killed Sophie, just unlikely, if only because of the basic physical fact of Kyra being shorter than Sophie had been by several inches. And at this point, they had absolutely no evidence tying Kyra to the murder or to indicate that Kyra had known anything about Greg and Sophie, either before or that night before the murder. (And just going purely by the standard of a mere possibility of having killed Sophie, as she had with Kyra, every member of the wedding party except for Mike Weitz should have been placed under surveillance as a suspect.)

More to the point, there was every indication that Sophie's murder had been an act of impulse, a crime of passion, unlikely to be repeated, especially as there was no indication that any of the other wedding guests knew anything about Sophie's strange behavior.

Kate was too conscientious a cop—and too self-aware (at least usually)—not to admit that if it hadn't been for the personal aspect of the case, she probably wouldn't have thought to order the surveillance. But she'd been thrown off her game, flustered enough, by her surprise over Castle's very personal connection to Kyra and by her own emotional reaction to it, and she'd been angry at Castle for his practically accusing her of being biased against Kyra out of jealousy, and, well, emotions weren't known to make people wise.

She wasn't really a creature of impulse anymore but this one time, she'd relapsed, or something, and now she was sorry.

She huffed and dropped down into her chair only to have her niggling discomfiture over the surveillance be promptly forgotten and drowned out by a surge of annoyance.

He had done it again! She'd thought he'd have learned his lesson after the second time he'd appropriated her chair, not long after they'd started working together, and she'd snapped at him that if he ever messed with her chair again, she'd shoot off his hand and ensure he never typed again and was reduced to dictating his books.

Oh bother it all.

She directed a glare at her chair in lieu of being able to glare at Castle, the actual culprit for why her feet were dangling inches off the ground when she was sitting down. She hated the absurd feeling of being a child again so her feet didn't touch the ground. (Predictably, her chair, being inanimate, didn't respond, depriving her of any marginal satisfaction from her glare. She decided to blame Castle for that too.)

She was going to have words with Castle when he arrived.

And she still needed to look through the results of the surveillance she'd so foolishly ordered, the folders for which were sitting on her desk in her inbox. She might be regretting having ordered the surveillance and she might not expect the surveillance to have picked up anything interesting, but that didn't mean she could ignore the results.

She pulled open the folder on Greg, quickly flipping through the photos. It looked like Greg had spent most of the evening with his uncle and his brother in the hotel bar, nursing a Scotch, before going up to his new room. (Greg's old room had been marked off limits as a potential crime scene thanks to Sophie's earring being found in it, CSU combing through every inch of it.) He hadn't stirred from his room nor had anyone else gone to visit him.

Kate made a face. Well, that was boring. Served her right for giving into impulse. All she appeared to have done was give herself extra work to do and wasted a few minutes of her morning.

And then she opened up the folder on Kyra. And straightened up because Kyra had left the hotel. There was a picture of her getting into a cab.

Getting into a cab and going to another hotel near Washington Square. Going to another hotel and going up to the roof and meeting with…

Something twisted sharply in Kate's chest.

Kyra had met with Castle last night.

After she had told Castle to stay away from Kyra and after he had, grudgingly, even angrily, agreed.

The first picture wasn't so terrible, just the two of them leaning against the edge of the wall around the rooftop, although their ease in each other's company was clear even from the picture.

The second picture—they were hugging, Kyra wrapped in Castle's arms. The height difference between them seemed to accentuate Castle's height and his bulk, making him look taller, stronger. Protective. Kate felt a weird little shiver of _something_ go through her at the image, had a sudden flash of sensory memory of the heat of his hand on her back, the solid warmth of his chest beneath her hand as she stepped in to kiss his cheek. (What would it feel like to be really hugged by Castle?)

The third picture… Kate's heart (yes, fine, it was definitely her heart that reacted) plummeted. Oh, the third picture was the worst. Kyra was still in Castle's arms but now her face was turned up to his, their noses almost touching. They weren't kissing. They were almost kissing—and in a weird way, Kate thought that was worse. Because it was as if all the attraction, the potential passion, of the unpictured kiss floated between them, radiated out from the image. She stared—she couldn't help it—until it seemed as if the image was seared onto her retinas, as if in punishment for having ordered the surveillance in the first place.

In the next picture, Castle and Kyra had separated, were exchanging companionable smiles.

But the damage was done. Kate couldn't get the image of Kyra and Castle almost kissing out of her head, couldn't help her imagination wandering further, to picturing them kissing, touching. And it _hurt_. Looking at the picture, the way her heart twisted inside her, she couldn't deny the ugly twist of jealousy and, worse, the slash of hurt. She cared about him. Had let herself get drawn into the warmth of his family life and let him slip past her guard with his eyes and his smile and his humor and his kindness…

Damn it! She'd _known_ better! She'd known he was a risk and messing up her neatly-organized life and all that and he'd still somehow managed to insinuate himself past the scaffolding she'd set up around her heart, still managed to throw her well-ordered life and emotions off-kilter.

She couldn't—she wouldn't do this.

She didn't know what Castle was thinking—Kyra was still engaged to Greg—but it was a salutary reminder of how close Kate had come to… a mistake. It was even a good thing, she told herself. Really. She'd always thought Castle was a risk and now she knew. It didn't matter that he said he was thankful for her or that he said she was extraordinary; clearly, she wasn't the only woman he thought was extraordinary.

The stab of pain triggered her automatic instinct for self-preservation, gave voice and strength to her fears. The walls and scaffolding around her heart were meant to keep other people away, keep herself safe, hidden. If she never let anyone close, she couldn't be hurt. Because people left. Whether through death or drowning in the bottle or retiring from the job when she was promoted or for bigger and better opportunities in another city, people always left.

Leaving her alone.

And she was just fine on her own.

She'd woken up in time, saved herself. Just like always.

She and Castle were friends. That was all. And she was fine with that.

She quickly flipped through the rest of the pictures—not that many, of Kyra and Castle talking, Castle showing Kyra something on his phone with both of them smiling. (And something about the quality of Castle's smile had Kate guessing that he was talking about Alexis. She knew that look, his Alexis look, as it was one she'd only ever seen when he was talking to or about Alexis.) They looked so at ease together, the physical easiness of people accustomed to each other's nearness. And it occurred to Kate how much it revealed about their past relationship that they could recapture that so easily even after so many years. If they'd met in college—Kate could do the math; they hadn't seen each other in well over fifteen years and still, after all those years, they looked… well, like a couple of long-standing.

So Castle was capable of a real relationship, capable of a love that was strong enough to have survived a separation of more than a decade. A real relationship with Castle—

Kate cut herself short. Nope, not going there. It didn't matter to her because she and Castle were only friends.

She put the folder of surveillance photos to the side and busied herself with looking over some of the other information on the wedding party's background checks that had come in when she heard his familiar step. And was presented with a cup of (familiar) coffee and a white bag that she knew without looking contained a bear claw.

A knot of tension inside her chest loosened a little almost in spite of herself. He'd brought her a bear claw. Again. He'd mostly stopped bringing her bear claws or pastries of any kind, sticking with only coffee, after she'd snapped at him once last summer that he couldn't bribe his way back into her forgiveness for digging into her mom's case using pastries. Today, he'd brought her another bear claw. And coffee, of course.

He really did make it hard to stay annoyed with him.

Well, sort of. Her still-dangling feet reminded her of her other issue with him. She would mention that first, make it seem as if she was more upset over that than… the other thing. (Also, a tiny corner of her mind admitted that she wanted to see if he would bring Kyra up himself. A test of… trust, or something. Since he had broken a sort of promise not to see Kyra.)

"What did I tell you?" she demanded coolly, foregoing a greeting.

He blinked, looking discombobulated. "What?"

"Did I or did I not make myself clear?"

"Yes?" It sounded more like a question than an answer.

"Do you know how much it annoys me knowing what you're doing, touching things that shouldn't be touched, yanking on things that shouldn't be yanked?" Bad choice of words there, her mind immediately filling with images of Castle touching Kyra, of clothes being yanked off— _no, stop it!_

Now he looked wide-eyed with something like terror. Her annoyance was appeased, a little, at this evidence that her no-nonsense Detective persona could still intimidate, even Castle, who didn't often listen to instructions. "No, no, nobody yanked on anything!"

"Really, then how do you explain this?" She pushed back from her desk, letting him see her feet dangling in the air.

"Huh?" He gaped at her as if he'd never seen a chair before, let alone knew how to adjust the height of one.

She gave him a narrow-eyed look. "Oh, don't give me that look. I've told you a million times not to mess with my chair."

"Right, no, I'm sorry," he hurriedly said, almost visibly shaking himself. "And it won't happen again."

She nodded, silent acceptance of the words.

"And… uh… I'm sorry about something else too," he spoke up a little uncertainly. "I saw her last night. I know I said I wouldn't but she called and asked because she'd found out about Greg and Sophie and she needed a friend to talk to and, well, I couldn't say no," he explained in a frantic rush of words.

He was admitting it, not even trying to hide it. And it wasn't because he thought she already knew since clearly he didn't. It occurred to her that Castle might act impulsively and blurt things out without thinking but he didn't lie. It might not make him the most discreet person in the world but it did make him… trustworthy. He wasn't deceitful.

And that thought made the knot of annoyance inside her loosen still further.

"I know," she acknowledged, trying to sound bland.

He blinked. "What? How?"

She bit the inside of her lip. Well, if he'd come clean, she could hardly do any less. She pulled out the folder with the surveillance photos of Kyra, of Kyra and Castle, inside, opening it so he could see, just the first couple.

Something like anger flitted across his expression, chasing away the remorse. "You had me under surveillance?" (There was some betrayal there too.)

"Not you, Kyra," she corrected him quickly. As if she would ever have him under surveillance! She wasn't that far gone, would never be. She trusted him more than that. (Huh. She trusted him? When had that happened? Because she realized now she did trust him.)

"Why would you have Kyra under surveillance?"

"Because she's a murder suspect."

"Oh no, see, Sophie's murder was an isolated crime of passion. Watching Kyra after the fact would be a waste of police resources which we both know you would not do."

Damn it, he was right, or at least, not wrong. Leave it to Castle to be able to cut straight through to the heart of the mistake she'd made in ordering the surveillance. Even if her vague apprehensions had, sort of, been proven right. (She suddenly, irrationally, wished he weren't so perceptive. It would be so much easier to deal with him if he weren't so damn clever, clever enough that she knew if she didn't make an effort, he'd outstrip her easily, which wasn't that common, in her experience. And if he weren't clever, he would never have posed any risk at all to her heart—but he _was_ that clever and he _was_ a risk and she just had to resist. Which she could absolutely do.) "I had to make sure that you didn't do anything stupid. Which you did." Why oh why was she justifying herself when she'd already admitted she shouldn't have done it? And yet she simply couldn't admit that to Castle, her temper automatically rising at the challenge in his words.

He let out a huff of mingled defensiveness and irritation. "Okay, so meeting with Kyra wasn't my finest moment but she was hurt and she needed a friend who's not part of the wedding to talk to and I just wanted to make her feel better."

"By kissing her?" Kate queried caustically, not able to help it. "She's not a child who scraped her knee and needs you to kiss it better." (She sounded jealous. Damn it, _why_ wasn't she shutting up?)

"I didn't kiss her."

"Not yet," she muttered under her breath ( _shut up, Kate!_ ) but he heard.

"Not ever. Look, Kyra and I—whatever we once had is over; we're just friends now. And I'm sorry for what I said yesterday, about you suspecting Kyra out of jealousy. I know you wouldn't do that."

A little sore spot in her chest that had lingered at the accusation, even if she hadn't acknowledged its existence, healed at his words. And she felt her irritation softening yet further.

"I told Kyra that you're the best cop in the city and I meant it."

Yeah, there was the disarming side of Castle. She grasped at the last remaining strands of her irritation but found them slipping through her fingers as if she were trying to grasp so much mist. Oh, bother, couldn't she even stay annoyed with him for any length of time?

Not that she could or would tell him that she forgave him outright. Instead, she finally settled for saying, with studied casualness, as if the last few minutes had never happened, "Thanks for the coffee and the bear claw."

Not that it mattered whether she said the words outright because as usual, he understood, his eyes clearing and brightening, as he sat up straighter. (He was too astute, knew her too well, not to understand.) "Anytime."

His casual dismissal of his own generosity made a traitorous, little tendril of warmth sprout up inside her. Bother, did he have to be so… nice to her?

She was being ridiculous, she knew it, but really, would it kill him to make it easier for her to resist him? Where was the jackass when she actually wanted him to appear again?

Castle went on, his tone switching to his theory-speculation tone. "And I was thinking, what if Greg's story was true? Why would Sophie—"

"Hey, the financials came back on the groom. Pretty modest, actually, for someone with a trust fund," Esposito interrupted because of course he would.

Castle subsided and then Ryan's info on Sophie's schedule led them further, to Sophie's financial problems and strange behavior, all of which fell into place to implicate Greg's uncle, Ted Murphy.

Which didn't please Greg at all. But Kate noted that although Greg's hostility to Castle hadn't markedly changed, Castle's attitude to Greg was noticeably less belligerent. The underlying streak of jealousy over Kyra was gone, Kate thought. That was interesting. Castle's words earlier about him and Kyra being just friends now appeared to be entirely true.

And by the end of the day, Castle's faith in Kyra was vindicated but more importantly, so was Greg's story as the truth about Ted Murphy's perfidy as the trustee of Greg's trust fund came to light and his motive for murdering Sophie.

Kate tactfully left Castle alone to explain to Kyra what had happened but couldn't keep herself from observing as surreptitiously as possible through the conference room window.

She couldn't hear what they were saying but she thought she was a good enough reader of body language and what she saw between Kyra and Castle… There was affection and, yes, a physical ease, but there was no sexual tension either. They looked like old friends. Only that and nothing more, to quote the line from Poe. (Not that it mattered to Kate. Really.)

Even though Kyra stood and bent to kiss Castle's cheek before turning to leave.

Kate hurriedly swiveled her chair away, making a show of going through paperwork as if wholly absorbed in it, when she became aware of Kyra having paused next to her desk and she glanced up to meet Kyra's smile.

"He's all yours."

Wha—he wasn't—she didn't—they weren't—it wasn't like that between her and Castle, Kate's stuttering thoughts finally managed a complete sentence. Not that it mattered as Kyra had already left, going to join Greg, waiting for her by the elevator. Kyra stepped right into Greg's arms, lifting her face for his brief kiss before they stepped into the elevator when it opened. And Kate became aware that she was still gaping after Kyra and deliberately closed her mouth.

She wasn't going to think about it. Whatever Kyra thought she knew about Kate and Castle's relationship, she was just… wrong. That was all.

It wasn't long before Castle too emerged from the conference room and though she tried not to, she found herself looking up at him as he stopped by her desk. He looked… wistful was the only word for it but he met her eyes steadily. "So Kyra and Greg will be happy."

"Yeah, I think so," she agreed.

He flashed a semblance of his usual cocky smile. "Well, the case is solved so I guess that's it for me. Until tomorrow, Beckett."

"Night, Castle."

She watched him go, his familiar stride, his broad shoulders, his butt, for a moment before she caught herself and realized what she was doing, and turned her attention back to finishing up the paperwork to close Sophie's case for good.

She and Castle were friends so it definitely didn't matter to her, not in the slightest, that Castle was most certainly single again, that Kyra had so clearly ceded any claim on him. It didn't make a difference. Nothing had changed from the last few days, from before she'd even heard the name of Kyra Blaine. Really.

She wasn't going to fall for him, wasn't going to let herself care (more).

But for all that, she felt an absurd little bubble of pleasure inside her when he showed up mid-morning the next day. He didn't always drop by when they had no active cases since he didn't do any paperwork but occasionally, he did, always bearing coffee (for her) and sometimes a box of pastries of some sort for the bullpen (his bribes, as he joked.)

And today, he had a box of donuts under one arm, which he proceeded to set out on Espo's desk (thus ensuring that Espo's desk would be the focal point for the ensuing feeding frenzy) before moving on to her. He set her coffee on her desk with a little flourish and then presented her with, not a donut, but a cupcake. A chocolate cupcake with her favorite cream cheese frosting and a smiley face drawn onto the frosting. (Clearly today was going to be one of those mornings where he didn't even make a pretense about not singling her out for special treatment, one of those days where the boys pretended to grumble about it.)

"For you, Detective," he said with exaggerated courtliness.

Ridiculous man.

She wasn't going to fall for him.

But in spite of herself, when she looked at the smiley face on the cupcake, she couldn't help but smile. It was the cupcake, she told herself, not him. But he beamed in response and she felt a traitorous flutter in her chest. She had a flash of memory to how pleased he'd looked that she'd liked his stuffing on Thanksgiving, the way he'd looked so thrilled. How did he do that—look as if she were the one doing him a favor when he did something nice for her? (As if it were a privilege to make her smile, a tiny voice whispered in the back of her mind, but she ignored it.)

"Why, thank you, Mr. Castle," she returned instead, teasingly imitating his manner.

He grinned, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes, as always happened when she teased him. "And I also come bearing an invitation," he announced grandly.

"An invitation? To what?" she asked with a little return of suspicion.

He gave her a look of entirely feigned distress. "Must you be so suspicious when I'm only trying to tender a perfectly innocent invitation? Anyone would think you didn't trust me."

She snorted at his melodramatics. "What's the invitation for?"

"A wedding," he answered, immediately brightening up. "Kyra and Greg's wedding, to be precise."

She blinked. "Kyra and Greg's wedding?"

"Yes. Kyra and Greg apparently talked it over with their families and friends and the hotel and so the redo of their wedding is going to be this Saturday morning. Kyra called me this morning to tell me about it."

"And you're asking me to come?" Her heart was starting to thrash around in her chest. He was inviting her to accompany him to Kyra's wedding, as in be his plus-one to a wedding? Oh god, really?

"Technically, Kyra asked if you would come too so no, I'm not the one asking."

"Kyra wants me to come to her wedding?" She was sounding like an idiot this morning, even as her heart was no longer bouncing around in her chest because he was clearly not asking her to be his plus-one. Thank god. "But I barely know her." Well, sort of. She could hardly claim to be friends with Kyra; they'd only exchanged a bare handful of words.

"Kyra said it was sort of her way of thanking you for solving the case. You don't have anything else planned, do you?"

"No, but…" She shouldn't. She really shouldn't be spending more time with him outside of work. And at a wedding? With all the romance and, fine, love in the air at weddings? No. Oh no, that would be too dangerous. Too much.

"You know it's terrible manners to say no to a bride's request."

"I think that only counts for a bride's request on their actual wedding day," she retorted.

"You've already said you don't have anything else planned. Come on, Beckett, it'll be fun," he added cajolingly. "Just you, me, and Alexis at Kyra and Greg's wedding."

"Alexis will be going?"

"Yeah, Kyra said she'd like to meet her and I checked with Alexis and she agreed. So what do you say, Beckett? Go to a wedding with me?"

She wanted to. Kyra and Greg deserved their happiness after what they'd been through the last few days and she rather liked the idea of something happy to close out the end of a case, affirmation that life went on. And yes, fine, she wasn't entirely opposed to the idea of spending more time with Castle outside of work. As _friends_. ( _Not opposed—sure, Kate, who do you think you're fooling?_ ) She shouldn't. But Alexis would be there, as a buffer and security. So it would be fine. She still shouldn't...

"Yes, fine, I'll go," she agreed before she'd realized she was going to, before she could think better of it.

"You will? I mean, that's great!" he grinned, literally bouncing in his chair. So… Castle-like. What other grown man would bounce in his chair?

She couldn't think of a single person, with the possible exception of her dad, who would look so happy that she'd accepted an invitation. And her dad would never bounce.

"So the wedding will be at 11, at the hotel, of course. Alexis and I can pick you up at 10?"

"Sure, Castle," she found herself agreeing even before she'd thought. Damn it, when had it become so hard to resist him—and why had it become so hard to say no? (Except, she suspected, she knew. It was in the way his eyes illuminated his entire expression whenever she agreed to something, when she said yes. He just looked so… happy… and she just… liked to see it. Liked him. Shit. She was in so much trouble.)

"Awesome," he grinned. "I'll tell Kyra she can expect us."

Oh god. She had agreed to go with Castle, and his daughter, to Castle's ex-girlfriend's wedding—what had she gotten herself into now?

 _~To be continued…~_

 _A/N 2: Apologies in advance as I won't be able to post next week._

 _Thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed, followed, or added this fic to their favorites—especially to the guest reviewers whom I can't thank directly._


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Apologies for not being able to post last week but now I'll be able to go back to a regular posting schedule. So without further ado, Kyra's wedding and what happens after that (which will be covered in 2 chapters because it is ridiculously easy to write besotted!Castle so, again, I blame him for my prolixity.)

 **For All That You Are**

 _Chapter 5_

She was beautiful.

Castle knew he should be paying attention to Kyra and Greg since it was their wedding after all but he couldn't keep his gaze from straying to Beckett instead. It didn't even matter that at the moment, as they'd all turned to watch Kyra and Greg walking in (for this redo of the wedding, it was so small and informal that they hadn't bothered with an actual bridal procession so Kyra and Greg simply walked in together), Kate's head was turned away from him so all he could really see of her was her hair, the curve of one ear. But that was distracting enough. She'd done something to her hair to make it curl more than it usually did, giving her a softer, more feminine look, and whatever she'd done to her hair also seemed to bring out the reddish highlights in the mahogany brown. (What, he was a guy, the finer points of hair styling were a mystery to him. He might have taught himself, painstakingly, to braid Alexis's hair, even how to do a French braid, but beyond that, he didn't know.)

He couldn't even see Beckett's face but he was still riveted.

God, he was really besotted when even the shell of her ear was so distracting. Although, in fairness (or something), it wasn't so much her ear as it was the vulnerable spot just behind her earlobe. Wondering what she would do if he leaned forward and pressed his lips to that spot, if it was a sensitive spot for her, if she would gasp or moan and turn her head to give him more access to the smooth, soft curve of her neck, if she would sag back against him… (He mentally yanked the brakes on his wandering thoughts. No, no, not going there. Beckett was more likely to maim him than moan for him.)

Kyra and Greg had arrived at the front of the room, in front of the judge, an old family friend of Greg's family apparently, who had agreed to give up his Saturday morning to be the officiant.

The judge beamed out at the small audience. "Good morning, everyone, as we come here to witness the joining together of two very special people, Kyra Blaine and Greg Murphy. I'll keep this short since I know that this wedding has already been postponed once." He cleared his throat and turned to Kyra first. "Do you, Kyra, take this man to be your lawfully-wedded husband…"

Castle's eyes strayed again, darting over to glance at Beckett, who was smiling a small, soft smile as she watched Kyra, looking steadily up at Greg, as she said her vows in a confident, if soft, voice.

God, Beckett was gorgeous, he thought, for approximately the millionth time in the last hour since he and Alexis had arrived at her apartment and seen her. She looked different, dressed up more than she usually did for work, in nice slacks and a soft lilac blouse, and wearing jewelry, a three-strand silver necklace, studded at intervals with what he guessed were tiny cubic zirconias. (And he wondered for one insane second how he might sneak into Beckett's apartment and borrow the necklace to get the cubic zirconias replaced with real diamonds. Kate Beckett deserved diamonds, deserved everything.) He hadn't seen Beckett dressed up for non-work events nearly often enough—the MADT fundraiser, his book launch party, Thanksgiving, and now today—and he could not get enough of it. (Couldn't get enough of her, no matter how she was dressed.) He tended to forget—or something—sometimes just how beautiful she was in the normal rush of work, when he was distracted with the workings of her brain, her force of personality, her coruscating brilliance in an interrogation. And then it seemed like a constant surprise to him in the occasional moments when the sight of her just hit him straight in the chest, leaving him a little breathless with her beauty. It was ridiculous, really. With his misbegotten past, Castle considered himself something of a connoisseur of female pulchritude (mental note, never mention that to Beckett) but then he saw Beckett sometimes and he forgot how to breathe. As if his eyes, everything in him, just seemed to want to pause, stop everything, and simply stare. And he thought that he might happily spend the rest of his life looking at Kate Beckett.

(He was disgustingly besotted, wasn't he?)

If anyone had told him even two weeks ago that he could be at Kyra's wedding to another man and have his attention be so wholly wrapped up in another woman that he was only vaguely aware of Kyra saying her vows, he would have thought the person insane.

He felt Alexis briefly rest her head against his arm and he returned to the present, glancing down at Alexis's redhead beside him, before he forcibly directed his gaze and his attention back to the front of the room. And the wedding that he was ostensibly here for.

Kyra had finished her vows and now it was Greg's turn, sounding equally certain and sure. For a fleeting moment, the memory of Greg insisting hotly, _I love Kyra, Rick. She means the world to me_ , flashed through his mind. Castle smiled inwardly. He believed Greg. And he was glad because Kyra deserved to be loved so completely by a good man.

The judge, obviously knowing what had happened this last week since the wedding that wasn't, had reversed the order of the ceremony and now said what Castle's literary mind always thought of as the _Jane Eyre_ line about if anyone could show just cause why these two should not be joined together. There was, as usual, a moment where Castle was sure everyone was holding their breaths (after the last week, especially) but then it passed. There was a wave of smiles, palpable relief, not least from Kyra and Greg—and from Beckett.

And then… "By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

It was done. Kyra was married.

Castle stood up with everyone else, applauding, as Kyra kissed her new husband.

And then Greg released Kyra and Kyra glanced backwards and he caught the faint mischief in the curve of her lips, the flash of her eyes. Oh, Kyra was definitely up to something. He thought of Kyra's call to invite him and Beckett to the wedding and then Kyra's so-innocent comment that he should bring Alexis too. He'd been reminded of Kyra saying that he should let Beckett see him with Alexis more often and now she was suggesting they all come to her wedding together. He'd commented on it, asking if she was, by any chance, trying to match-make and Kyra had laughed it off, saying, "Don't be silly, Rick. I only thought it'd be nice to meet Alexis after hearing so much about her and as for your detective, it seems like the least I can do since if it weren't for you two figuring out what Greg's Uncle Teddy did, Greg and I wouldn't be getting married at all." He'd accepted it but now, seeing the mischief in her look, he thought he'd been too trusting.

Which did mean that he was probably the only person in the room who wasn't surprised when Kyra flung her bouquet backwards, straight towards Beckett's face so that she had no choice but to catch it.

He gave a crack of laughter that was mostly drowned out by the laughs from the other guests and eventually joined in with by Beckett—and it should have been ridiculous but he swore the sound of her laugh resonated on its own frequency so that his ear caught the distinct sound even among the applause and laughter from everyone else.

(God, she was so gorgeous when she laughed.)

As if by some unspoken cue, the applause faded as the rest of the wedding party surged forward to surround Kyra and Greg, until Kyra at least momentarily disappeared amid the circle of their families.

He, Alexis, and Beckett hung back, not family and not really part of the first table, so to speak.

Alexis grinned over at Beckett. "Nice catch, Detective."

Beckett gave a small rather abashed laugh. "Thanks, Alexis. Say, why don't you take the bouquet home with you?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't," Alexis shied away. "You're the one who caught it, it's yours so you need to keep it."

He gave Beckett's arm a teasing nudge. "Looks like you need to start tearing pictures of wedding gowns out of magazines again, Beckett."

He was only teasing—but the words came back to bite him in a sense as his unruly imagination promptly presented his mind with a vision of Kate Beckett in a flowing white gown, making him catch his breath as his heart, his gut, everything inside him seemed to clench with longing. He wanted that. He wanted that to be _for him_.

Oh god. He mentally reeled. He wanted to marry Kate Beckett.

After his divorce from Gina, he'd sworn to himself that he was done, he was never going to put himself or Alexis through that again, not unless he was absolutely, positively sure, down to the marrow of his being, that this time would be forever. And with his past experiences, he'd been reasonably sure that meant he'd never marry again because how could he be so sure that a woman wouldn't leave, wouldn't give up when things got hard? Every woman he'd ever loved had ended up leaving him. And his mother's string of relationships wasn't exactly encouraging either.

And then he'd met Kate Beckett and now he knew. If he married again, it would be to her. He wanted to marry her. Because he knew her, he trusted her, and he knew with every fiber of his being that she was different, would never leave. She was, as she'd once told him, a one-and-done type of girl and everything he knew about her bore that out. If she made a commitment like that, she would keep it, would give her marriage every ounce of the dedication and passion she poured into her work (and more too). She would never give up, never walk away, would give everything she had.

It was the way he was built too, going all in, no holds barred. He'd been willing to put in the work, had looked into marriage counselors when he and Gina had been fighting more, narrowed it down to a shortlist of discreet, reputable ones, and been about to suggest it to Gina when she'd walked out and served him with divorce papers. And he'd learned, again, that he couldn't do it alone. Making a marriage work, like with everything else in a marriage, took two—two people willing to put in the work and figure things out when things got hard (as they inevitably would at times.) His own commitment wasn't enough.

Beckett narrowed her eyes at him in trademark fashion. "Shut up, Castle. It's a silly tradition and I don't believe that old folktale about catching the bouquet anyway."

He smirked, waggling his eyebrows at her. (It was such _fun_ to tease Beckett sometimes.) "No? Then why were you so eager to pawn off the bouquet onto Alexis?"

"You realize I'm carrying a gun, right?"

He slung his arm around Alexis's shoulder, tugging her in front of him so he could rest his chin on her hair. "Oh, you'd never shoot me in front of Alexis," he returned airily.

"Don't be so sure," she retorted but the words were rather belied by the amusement lurking at the corners of her lips, dancing in her eyes.

He opened his mouth to respond but his words were lost on a grunt as Alexis elbowed him. "Leave Kate alone, Dad! And stop hiding behind me for when you're being annoying."

Now Beckett laughed. "Thanks, Alexis. See, Castle, give it up unless you want to take on me and your daughter at the same time."

He released Alexis to give her a theatrical pout. "It's not nice to take sides against your own father."

Alexis gave him a look of wide-eyed innocence. (Which she was very good at. It was the blue eyes. He ought to know; he'd made something of an art out of innocent expressions. He felt one of those ridiculous little thrills he still felt on seeing something of himself in Alexis. For the most part, he adored her individuality, never ceased to marvel at how unique this amazing human that he and Meredith had somehow managed to make was, but sometimes, he caught flashes of himself reflected in her and felt an absurd burst of pride.) "But Dad, most of the time you deserve it."

Okay, he changed his mind. Less amazing. He narrowed his eyes at her. "You're cheeky today, daughter."

"I learned it from you, father. And you know, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."

He laughed, couldn't help it, and tugged her into his arms again, catching her in a mock headlock. "Stop trying to soften me up, Alexis, it's not gonna work," he quipped with absolute mendacity.

Beckett scoffed. "You're such a fraud, Castle. Alexis has got you wrapped around her little finger and you know it."

He made a show of pretending to cover Alexis's ears. "Ssh, not out loud! You'll encourage her tyrannical ways."

Alexis ducked out from his hands and directed a look of laughing challenge at him. "So I'm a tyrant, am I?"

He gave her one of his own patented looks of exaggerated innocence. "A very cute tyrant?" he offered.

Alexis snorted. "That makes no sense."

"Sugar and pumpkin spice and everything nice?" he tried again, deliberately inserting her nickname into the old rhyme.

And succeeded as Alexis relented and giggled.

"Nice save, Castle," Beckett mocked. "Anyone would think you're a writer, coming up with a rhyme like that."

He grinned at her, his silly heart dancing in his chest, because oh, he loved it when she teased him like this, loved the way amusement brought out the sparks of green and gold in her eyes. "I'm very clever, didn't you know?" he joked.

Beckett rolled her eyes. "I think you've mentioned it once or twice…"

"Or a billion times before," Alexis chimed in. (He tried, really hard, to be upset that Alexis was apparently so happy to team up with Beckett against him but failed miserably. Crazy, since it had always been him and Alexis against the world and he didn't much like it when Alexis and his mother teamed up against him, but he found he really couldn't mind it because of what it indicated about Alexis's comfort level with Beckett, how much she liked and looked up to Beckett. Yeah, he was a goner.)

He pretended to huff but then was distracted as Kyra, finally freed from the clutches of the wedding party, approached them. "Rick, Kate, I'm so glad you came."

Beckett swung around to smile at Kyra. "Congratulations, Kyra. Thanks for inviting me."

Kyra waved off the thanks. "Of course you had to be here since it was your work that made today even possible."

Castle bent and brushed a chaste kiss against Kyra's cheek, catching the familiar whiff of lavender. "Congratulations. You look lovely." He straightened and then reached out a hand to grasp Alexis's. "Kyra, this is my daughter, Alexis. Alexis, this is Kyra Blaine."

"Kyra Murphy now," Kyra corrected him laughingly as she turned her smile to Alexis, reaching out to take Alexis's hand in both of hers. "It is so great to finally meet you, Alexis. I've heard so much about you from your dad."

"It's nice to meet you too, Mrs. Murphy," Alexis greeted. "Thank you for inviting me today."

Kyra squeezed Alexis's hand. "Oh, none of that Mrs. Murphy formality. Call me Kyra, Alexis."

"I hope you don't believe everything Dad told you about me, Kyra," Alexis said lightly. "Dad talks too much."

Kyra glanced up at him, her eyes bright, and he read her unspoken words. _You're right, Rick. She's adorable._ But then she returned her gaze and her smile to Alexis. "Don't worry, Alexis," she joked. "I know your dad too well to believe everything he says."

He pretended to bridle in mock offense. "I'm standing right here, you know."

Kyra only quirked a teasing eyebrow at him but otherwise ignored him. "So, Alexis, you're in 10th grade now, right?"

"Yes," Alexis nodded. "It's a lot more work than we had last year but it's fun too."

"What classes are you—"?

"Kyra?" Greg's voice interrupted Kyra's question as he joined her, his hand resting briefly on the back of Kyra's neck in a light caressing gesture before settling on her shoulder.

Castle, his eyes made sharper after years of knowing Kyra (and also, to be honest, as the one who had, once upon a time, given Kyra similar caresses), noted the small, sensual shiver that went through Kyra in reaction and cut his eyes away, feeling discomfited and oddly reassured at the same time. It was good that Kyra and Greg were clearly so happy, so solid, together, especially after the upheaval and revelations of the last week, but still, a little weird for him to see. He mentally shook himself and reached out to shake Greg's hand. "Greg, congratulations. You're a lucky man."

Greg gave him the first real smile he'd ever given Castle as he shook Castle's hand. "Thanks, Rick. I know it."

Castle felt the first spark of affinity. He and Greg were never going to be friends, not really, but they could be amicable, at least, because whatever else, they both wanted Kyra to be happy and that was some common ground.

"Congratulations," Beckett offered, more quietly.

Greg turned to Beckett. "Thank you, Detective." He paused, looking back at Kyra. "Kyra, Judge Eckhart needs to leave soon."

"Oh, yes, of course." Kyra flashed Greg a smile and then turned back to them. "You'll have to excuse us. I really am so glad you could come today. It was great to meet you, Alexis."

"Nice to meet you too. And congratulations," Alexis responded.

"I'm glad I could come," Beckett said.

Then it was his turn. Kyra's smile and her expression changed, softened, warmed, and for just a flash, he was reminded, again, of all the years they'd spent together, how much he'd once loved her. "Rick, don't be such a stranger. Let's try not to let so many years go by before we talk again, okay?"

He returned her smile. "It's a deal. Be happy, Kyra."

She glanced up at Greg, leaning in towards her new husband slightly. "I already am." Her gaze flickered between Castle and Beckett, her eyebrows lifting almost imperceptibly in unspoken encouragement. "You too, Rick. Take care of yourself."

With a last smile at all three of them, Kyra turned and left at Greg's side, returning to the small knot of the wedding party.

Castle watched her go for a moment, mentally bidding a last goodbye, as it were, to his and Kyra's relationship, as a stream of memories flashed through his mind. He had loved her once... And now Kyra was married and happy; he could look to securing his own happiness now.

His gaze was snagged by Sheila's as she glanced around, her expression immediately rearranging itself into the basilisk stare she seemed to reserve exclusively for him. Castle deliberately directed his most insouciant smile at her, making her expression harden so much he was momentarily surprised her very face didn't crack, before he turned his smile to Beckett, feeling the way the muscles of his face eased into a genuine smile. (It occurred to him that he was so incredibly glad, relieved, that he liked Jim Beckett. Made life much easier when you got along with your in-laws.)

( _Whoa, there, Rick, you're getting way ahead of yourself._ )

"Well, the wedding's over. Shall we go?"

Beckett met his eyes and something in her gaze made him realize that she'd caught that last exchange of looks between him and Sheila. (Of course she had; she noticed things too.)

"Sure, Dad, let's go," Alexis agreed, blithely innocent, oblivious to Sheila's hostility. (Thank goodness. Yes, they needed to leave now before he risked having to introduce Alexis to Sheila. He would happily spend the rest of his life ensuring that Alexis never had to meet anyone as vituperative as Sheila was and it would be an added bonus if it kept Alexis from knowing that anyone could hate him quite as much as Sheila Blaine still did, for reasons as unjust.)

"What do you say we have lunch at Hanigan's?" Alexis suggested.

He inclined his head to Alexis with mock gravity. "Clearly, you've inherited my brilliance. You will go far, young Padawan."

Alexis giggled. "Will you come too, Kate?"

Oh, yeah, Alexis was definitely brilliant. And he really loved how much his daughter liked Beckett.

Beckett glanced between him and Alexis, her eyes a little wider than usual with an expression he couldn't quite read but was certainly not unadulterated joy at the idea of spending more time with them.

Castle felt a pang of something like fear (he was so doomed), even as he schooled his expression to one of welcoming blandness.

"Oh, well, I…" Beckett hesitated.

"I mean, I don't want to bother you if you're busy," Alexis hurriedly added, "But I thought it'd be nice since it's lunchtime and I wanted to ask you some questions about college, if you don't mind."

Beckett relaxed into smiling at Alexis. "Of course I don't mind. In that case, sure, lunch would be nice."

Castle forcibly restrained the urge to pump his fist in jubilation.

Alexis gave Beckett a bright smile. "Great. This was such a nice wedding," she went on cheerfully. "I think small weddings are better than big ones."

"In fairness, Alexis, this wedding was a lot smaller than it was initially planned to be because of having to be postponed for the case," he pointed out.

"True, but even going by the original guest list, it was still going to be a pretty small wedding. I think it was only around 150 guests total," Beckett returned.

"Either way, I think I like small weddings better. It felt more personal and Kyra and her husband would get to actually spend time with everyone and not have things be so crowded and chaotic that there'd be no time to actually talk to anyone, like at your wedding to Gina," Alexis added.

He made a small face at her but couldn't deny the point. "In hindsight, yeah, you have a point," he conceded. He left unsaid that he hadn't necessarily wanted his wedding to Gina—either of his weddings, for that matter—to be such a huge affair, with so much publicity and pomp and circumstance, but he'd given up on fighting Gina over it and he'd figured a wedding was more about the bride anyway and he'd wanted to make Gina happy so he'd given way, with the single exception being to limit Alexis's exposure to the press. Come to think of it, his disagreements with Gina over their wedding might almost summarize their entire relationship and he really should have known better.

He caught Beckett's sideways glance at him, saw her open her lips to ask something but then she apparently thought better of it, looked away and addressed Alexis instead, lightly, "You seem to have put a lot of thought into it."

"Oh, you know, never too early to start wedding planning, right?" Alexis quipped.

What? He choked on air. "Oh no, it is most definitely waaayy too early for you to be wedding planning because you are not getting married until you're at least 35," he stated flatly.

"Dad!"

"Castle!"

Alexis's and Beckett's admonishments overlapped, their disapproving tones almost eerily identical. (He changed his mind. It was so not cool the way Alexis looked up to Beckett.)

"Fine, 33," he compromised. See, he could be reasonable.

"Da-ad."

He huffed. "30. And that's my final offer."

" _Da-ad._ "

"Don't worry about it, Alexis," Beckett inserted. "There's no way he can enforce that anyway."

He shot her a look. "Don't be so sure," he muttered, thinking longingly of a convent with walls at least 12 feet high and a few feet thick and possibly topped with barbed wire to boot, nicely protecting Alexis from anyone or anything that might hurt her. (Damn it, where was a good convent when you needed one? He should look into renting out space in Fort Knox.)

Alexis only rolled her eyes. " _Anyways_ ," Alexis deliberately and obviously changed the subject, "I liked Kyra, Dad. She seemed really nice."

"You were expecting her not to be nice?" he teased.

"Don't be silly, Dad. I'm just saying, it was nice to finally meet her."

"Finally?" Beckett queried.

"Oh, you know, after knowing about her from the dedication in _A Rose For Everafter_ and things Dad has let slip over the years," Alexis explained. "Although, Dad, you never have said much about Kyra."

"It was a long time ago, Alexis. After all, the last time I saw Kyra until this last week, you weren't even a glint in my eye."

Alexis nudged him. "Well, it was nice to meet Kyra. I know she was important to you so it felt like I should meet her at least once. After all, you know all of my friends."

He opened his mouth to respond that it was different since his knowing Alexis's friends at this point in her life was partly so he could protect her but found he couldn't quite control his voice. He felt his chest fill with so much love he was half-surprised his chest didn't physically burst. His sweet, thoughtful little girl. "If you're trying to butter me up so I'll agree to let you get married before the age of 30, it's not going to work," he managed to joke in an effort to cover up the swell of emotion.

"Honestly, Dad," Alexis huffed, using that tone of affectionate exasperation that was unique to her.

He managed a laugh and slung an arm around Alexis, tugging her into his side so he could drop a kiss on her hair.

"I've met almost everyone else who you've ever mentioned in the dedications of your books," Alexis said.

Come to think of it, she had pretty much. Huh. It had never occurred to him before. "You trying to collect the full set?" he quipped.

"Wait," Beckett suddenly blurted out. "Did you—you introduced Alexis to Powell, the jewel thief?"

He was torn between defensiveness and delight at the way Beckett cared enough about Alexis to be concerned but one look at Beckett's expression and defensiveness won out, for the moment. "I didn't intend to!" He wasn't that irresponsible, would never voluntarily let Alexis meet a criminal. "Powell snuck in one night to prove a point to me about his ghost-like abilities and Alexis happened to wake up and anyway, it's not like Powell's really violent. He never hurt anyone during his career." Wait. He smirked, forgetting his defensiveness. "Wait, you remember the dedications to my books that well? Why, Beckett, you really are a fan, aren't you?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, a look that was somewhat belied by the flags of color appearing in her cheeks. "No, I—it's just because of meeting Powell that time at the fundraiser. You can't believe I wouldn't have looked into the _criminal_ who you brought to an active crime scene, Castle."

"Wait, that was Powell I met that night?" Alexis interjected. "You told me his name was Mr. Goldman!"

Castle looked at Alexis and shrugged. "He was the inspiration for Bentley Silver. Silver, gold, Goldman. Seemed appropriate, too, for a jewel thief. I wasn't about to tell you his real name." He turned back to Beckett and deliberately waggled his eyebrows at her, noting the faint flush of color along her cheekbones. "And this background check included the dedications of my books? I didn't think even the NYPD's records were that thorough." (They definitely weren't.)

"I did my own independent investigation too," she answered repressively in a tone that indicated she had said all she would ever say on the subject and with a look that threatened maiming if he continued.

He decided discretion was the better part of valor—and anyway, he'd already proved his point. Beckett remembered the dedications of his books and that alone said quite enough because in his experience, only readers who were avid fans paid any attention to the dedications of books, most just skipping on to the actual text. (Even he couldn't claim to remember the dedications of any other author's books.) He thought he might have found a permanent talisman to ward off the self-doubt that was a writer's curse. Just as meeting Beckett had banished his writer's block, now, on those days where he second-guessed every word and felt like everything he wrote was terrible, he could remember that Beckett really liked his books.

"Grams likes Powell, says he's charming and calls him the Gentleman Thief," Alexis interjected.

Beckett's lips curved into a smile. "The Gentleman Thief, huh? That's a catchy nickname."

Castle huffed with exaggerated disgruntlement. "Yeah, a real gentleman throwing me to the wolves at that fundraiser."

Beckett shot him a teasing smirk. "I would think you'd be flattered to have women bidding for a date with you."

He made a face at her. "No, I prefer to find my own dates, thank you very much."

Alexis clapped her hands to her ears dramatically. "Okay, Dad, I don't want to hear anymore."

His eyes met Beckett's over Alexis's red hair in a moment of shared amusement—and for a fleeting second, he indulged in the fantasy that he and Beckett could always be like this, together, Beckett by his side, maybe with her hand in his. (Oh, he wanted that.)

Beckett looked away first and he caught the slight pull on her lower lip that indicated she was biting the inside of her lip. (What, so he was really familiar with the shape of her lips.) "So where is this restaurant we're going to?" she asked instead.

"Hanigan's," Alexis supplied. "It's not far, just a couple more blocks. We've been going there for years. Dad likes their sandwiches."

"They make a great po'boy and their philly cheese steaks aren't bad either."

"Sounds good. Well, take us to it, fearless leader," Beckett quipped.

"Ooh, I like that title. Call me that again in front of the boys, please, Beckett," he cajoled.

"I was talking to Alexis," she returned flatly, narrowing her eyes at him, but he could see the twitch at the corners of her lips that indicated she was hiding a smile.

He mimed being struck in the chest. "Crushed again," he lamented dramatically.

Beckett's smile broke free as she laughed. "I think you'll survive."

He pulled a pout but couldn't hold it for long because the sound of her laugh, her bright smile, and dancing eyes, just did something to him. He would happily spend the rest of his life trying to make her smile and laugh just like this every day. New life goal. (He felt a quick pang of fear. _If she let him… If…_ )

But he pushed the thought aside. It was hard to feel too apprehensive at that moment, on a sunny day, when he was going to be having lunch with his two favorite people in the entire world. Hard—no, impossible to feel anything other than hopeful when Beckett was smiling at him the way she was, her eyes alight with humor and, yes, friendship and maybe something warmer than that.

His heart danced in his chest. She liked him. And she was _thankful_ for him. He could work with that.

 _~To be continued…~_

 _A/N 2: Thank you, as always, for reading._


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: More besotted!Castle for your reading pleasure.

 **For All That You Are**

 _Chapter 6_

They reached Hanigan's in short order and were quickly shown to a table near the back and he took the chair beside Alexis, leaving Beckett to the side looking out towards the door. (He'd spent enough time with cops to know that she preferred it.)

She glanced around, her gaze taking in the decor, the pictures on the wall, which were probably his favorite feature about the place since they featured a sort of time-lapse view of New York City, a series of black-and-white photos of the city starting with the turn of the century and moving forward. "I like this place. It's like a history lesson in pictures, a century of New York." She gave him one of her infrequent real smiles, untinged by any sarcasm, unhidden by the tug of her lip between her teeth, the wide bright curve of her teeth and lips echoed in the brightness of her eyes.

Their eyes met and held in a moment of shared appreciation for the pictures and this city of theirs and he suddenly thought that Beckett saw what he did in the city.

He felt a flicker of nerves, feeling exposed and vulnerable, because he was pretty sure his feelings would be written plainly all over his face, and he dragged his eyes away to focus on the pictures on the wall. Directed his mind to study the images of the city he'd spent his entire life in and as usual, noted new details to appreciate.

"'Sometimes when my eyes are red I go up on top of the RCA Building and gaze at my world, Manhattan—my buildings, streets I've done feats in, lofts, beds, coldwater flats—on Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind, its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men walking the size of specks in wool…'" he quoted rather dreamily.

Beckett's eyes unfocused, staring at a spot on the wall, a faint frown creasing her brow for a moment, and then she supplemented, slowly, "'And all these streets leading so crosswise, honking, lengthily, by avenues, stalked by high buildings or crusted into slums, thru such halting traffic screaming cars and engines…'"

He forgot about the pictures, the city, as he was, not for the first time, utterly beguiled by this woman, enthralled by the soft tones of her voice.

She broke off as she met his eyes. "What? I read too, you know."

"You are so hot," he blurted out.

"Eww, Dad! Stop being gross!" Alexis protested, abruptly reminding him of her presence and jerking him out of the spell Beckett seemed to have cast on him.

Beckett had quoted Allen Ginsberg from memory. Identifying his own quote and then meeting it. She was definitely the perfect woman.

"Yeah, Castle, stop being gross," she scolded but there was the faintest hint of a flush on her cheeks.

Fortunately for his own composure, the server arrived at that moment with water for the table and to take their orders.

Once the server had left, Alexis started, "Kate, you went to Stanford, right?"

Beckett blinked and took a sip of her water. "For the first two years, yes," she answered cautiously, a shadow flickering across her face.

Oh shit. Castle straightened up, his eyes flicking between Beckett and Alexis. Beckett had gone to Stanford for two years—and then her mother had been murdered and she'd transferred. If Alexis asked—he tried to remember how much he'd told Alexis about Beckett's history, if he'd mentioned how old Beckett had been. His mind blanked on that point in his spasm of worry.

"Oh, okay. The guidance counselors at school were saying that it might be good for us to start brainstorming about colleges, coming up with a preliminary list that we can narrow down over the next year," Alexis explained. "So I was just wondering, how did you decide where to go for college?"

Castle relaxed a little, thankful, for once, for the self-centeredness of teens. Not that Alexis was self-centered at normal times, certainly not compared to the average teen, but today, her preoccupation with colleges had blinded her to any undertones.

Colleges. His little girl was really thinking about colleges so seriously? Hadn't it been just yesterday that he'd been teaching her how to tie her shoelaces?

"Well, I…" Beckett began a little uncertainly, not sounding much like her usual self at all, and then hesitated.

Oh. He felt his heart melt and if he hadn't already loved her, he thought he would have fallen in love with her at that moment. She was nervous because she cared enough about his daughter to make sure she said the right thing, gave the right advice. (God knows he knew the feeling all too well.) When was the last time anyone besides him had cared so much about saying the right thing to Alexis? To the best of his knowledge, Meredith had only ever given Alexis advice about fashion and shopping tips. Gina was fond of giving advice (or instruction, as he could attest to) but Alexis hadn't asked. His mother—well, his mother wasn't given to introspection and her advice tended to be couched in lines taken from plays.

"I mean, I've been looking into Oxford, that looks really cool. And then there's Stanford, that has some really great programs too, and I've also thought about places like Berkeley or UCLA."

He tried not to scowl. Why were all the schools Alexis mentioned thousands of miles away? "You know, Alexis," he inserted, trying (and failing) to sound bland, "I've heard that a number of the nation's finest institutions of higher education are located not far from here too. There's Columbia or NYU, or even Princeton, UPenn, Yale." Or Harvard; he could deal with Harvard. Boston wasn't that far, an easy train or plane ride away.

Alexis gave him one of her looks. "I know, Dad. I've looked into them too." She paused and returned her gaze to Beckett. "It's just there's so much to think about and so many schools and I just don't know, how do you decide and this is—it's like the most important decision I've ever had to make so far and I don't want to make a mistake," Alexis rambled, somewhat ungrammatically.

She really was worried about this. Why hadn't he known how worried she was over this? He might have been busier and out a lot more because of the precinct but he would always drop everything if Alexis so much as hinted…

"It is a big decision," Beckett agreed, her voice more like her usual self and somehow soothing too, as the wave of Alexis's rather turbulent concerns broke against the rock face of Beckett's own projected calm and subsided, "but you do have time to figure it out. And also, this isn't one of those things where there's only one right choice and if you miss, you're doomed to be miserable for four years."

Alexis gave a faint smile. "Right, thanks, Kate. Sorry. I had a little freak-out there."

Beckett unbent into a little smirk. "I'm used to it, thanks to your dad."

"Hey!" he protested automatically. (Except, yeah, she wasn't wrong. He wasn't exactly the stoic type.)

Alexis laughed now. "She's right, Dad."

He made a show of bridling in disgruntlement, more to see Alexis's eyes brighten as she laughed and Beckett's smirk grow than because he really felt upset.

"So I feel like one of the first things to consider is location but I can't decide if I want to go far away or not. Part of me does but part of me doesn't and I don't know how to decide. What made you decide to go far away, Kate?"

He knew perfectly well how Alexis should decide; she should stay as close to home as possible. Becoming the father-daughter version of _Grey Gardens_ was sounding better by the day (well, minus all the cats and the disgusting, stinky house). He clamped his mouth shut before he could blurt that out and instead focused his gaze on Beckett, trying to telepathically influence her into encouraging Alexis to stay close by for college. (What, a man could try…)

"Well, when I was thinking about it, I thought I needed to go far away because I wanted the freedom, to get away from home, even from my… parents, live my own life," Beckett answered slowly, her voice changing almost imperceptibly at the mention of her parents. Looking at her, he noted the faint lines of tension bracketing her lips and he knew she wasn't entirely comfortable with being so open about her past, especially with how tangled up her memories of college must have been with her mom's death. Beckett wasn't a sharer, as Ryan had so aptly put it. But she was trying, making the effort, in order to help his daughter. Kate Beckett was a good woman, he thought rather inanely. But she really was.

"And if you stay close to home for college, it's a lot easier for you to keep hanging out in the same places, spending time with the same friends, because you can come home on weekends and stuff," Beckett went on.

His telepathy thing was clearly not working. Not that Beckett was likely to be influenced by him either way.

"Going far away guarantees that you'll be surrounded by new places, new faces. And, well, college is the time to leave the nest, meet new people, see new places, explore and," she paused for a moment before adding blandly, "experiment whether with boys or alcoh—"

He choked. "What? No. No, no, no. No, absolutely not," he added for good measure. "No experimenting, with anything or anyone, not unless you're talking about science experiments in a lab." And why was she practically telling his daughter to go far away for college? She shouldn't do that. He caught the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of Beckett's lips and realized belatedly that she'd been teasing, deliberately goading him into a heart attack. Beckett was evil, he decided petulantly. He'd fallen in love with an evil person.

"Don't interrupt, Dad. It's rude," Alexis scolded, not even bothering to turn her head to look at him and otherwise entirely ignoring what he'd just said. He inwardly huffed, tried not to outwardly pout. "So you think it's better to go far away for college?"

"No, I wouldn't necessarily say that," Beckett answered.

Ha, there, Beckett had repented of her evilness.

"It's something you need to decide for yourself. What I will say is that college is really what you make of it. Whether you stay right here or fly across the country for college, you can make the experience as broad or as narrow as you want it to be. You can go next door for college and still have it be a great, rewarding experience if you try to seek out new opportunities. College is inevitably a wider world than high school and if you're open to new experiences, you'll find you have plenty of chances to broaden your horizons. I wouldn't worry so much, Alexis. It's a good sign that you're putting so much thought into this so you're less likely to make a mistake by not taking the decision seriously."

He stared at her. It was probably one of the longest speeches he'd ever heard Beckett give and it was amazing, her words, her wisdom. Would she ever stop amazing him? (No, his mind automatically supplied.)

"Thank you, Kate. That helps a lot."

Something in Alexis's tone caught at him and Castle glanced sharply over at his daughter, concern for his little girl momentarily drowning out his swelling admiration for the woman across the table. Alexis's eyes and expression were clear, her smile entirely natural, and he relaxed a little. This was the sort of thing you'd expect to talk over with a mother—after all these years, he might have thought he'd become inured to the knowledge that Meredith wasn't around for Alexis but he'd found that there was no such thing as getting used to the possibility of Alexis being hurt or feeling neglected because of Meredith. And the low-lying anger and disappointment in Meredith never went away. He and Meredith managed to be amicable and in some ways, he still cared about her. She'd given him Alexis and to this day, he was thankful that she'd never tried to contest custody. (He was all too aware that if she ever tried, courts almost never refused custody to a mother and preferred joint custody as a rule so if Meredith ever tried, she would win—and frankly, Castle didn't relish the idea of custodially kidnapping Alexis, as the law would view it, by keeping her with him because obviously, he would only give up Alexis over his own dead body and maybe not even then.) But even so, he was glad Meredith lived on the other side of the country; he could only put up with her in small doses.

Alexis looked emotionally serene enough but just to make sure, he slid his arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her hair. "You're going to do just fine, pumpkin. You're blessed with good judgment, remember, and that applies just as much to where you decide to go for college."

And he absolutely would not try to pressure her into staying close by because it was what he wanted, he promised himself. It might kill him if she decided to go to the other side of the country (or the world—really, couldn't Oxford stick to its own country and not lure impressionable American kids with all its history and its traditions and its gorgeous city of dreaming spires and all that?) but if it was what she wanted, he would support her.

Alexis turned her head to smile at him and then briefly nestled her head against his shoulder. "Thanks, Dad."

His gaze was caught by a movement from Beckett, reaching out to take a sip of water, trying, he could see, to be unobtrusive, give him and Alexis this moment. She wasn't overtly watching, was ostensibly looking at the pictures on the wall, her lashes screening her eyes, but somehow he knew she was. There was a stillness about her, a watchfulness in her form.

At that opportune moment, the server returned with their food and he released Alexis as she straightened up in her chair, and the brief interlude was over.

But then Beckett glanced up, meeting his eyes, and gave him another of her rare, real smiles. And there was something… something he couldn't remember having seen before in her eyes, an added softness that made his silly, hopeful heart leap and then start clattering around in his chest. Maybe she might, maybe she could care about him… love him too… Maybe…

And he remembered what Kyra had said about letting Beckett see him with Alexis more often. It looked like Kyra had been right.

There were a few minutes of silence as they all busied themselves with their food and Castle felt a burst of pride in Alexis as she checked to make sure Beckett liked her sandwich choice.

He glanced up at Beckett to see a small drop of mustard on her upper lip and then as he watched, her tongue delicately lapped it off.

God, her _tongue_ … And just like that, he was more than half-aroused.

He sucked in a sharp breath, only to choke as a crumb went down the wrong way, and he turned away as he coughed and hacked and finally gulped down his water.

And found that at least choking had a salutary, dampening effect on his libido so his body had, um, subsided.

Thank god. It had been years since he'd suffered such a loss of control and gotten so inappropriately aroused. In the middle of a meal, with his daughter sitting next to him, no less!

Alexis had been lightly hitting his back as he choked and now gave him a concerned look. "You okay, Dad?"

He managed a faint reassuring smile for her sake. "Fine, pumpkin," he managed to say. "Just a crumb went down the wrong way."

"Try not to choke and die while we're eating, Castle," Beckett advised him jokingly.

The unthinking quip, _Aw, Beckett, I knew you cared_ , flashed into his mind but died in his throat. The words hit too close to home, too much what he really wanted, hoped. His heart clenched in that unique combination of longing, hope, and fear that accompanied the thought of an unacknowledged love. He was suddenly terrified, feeling utterly vulnerable and defenseless, realizing to the full that Kate Beckett had the power to utterly devastate him. Devastate him more than any woman ever had because Kate Beckett was not the sort of woman you could lose and not regret it, not be haunted by it for the rest of your life.

He swallowed back his fear and managed to say with a decent imitation of lightness, "I'll do my best, Beckett."

He turned to Alexis with a sense of relief. Alexis, whose loving heart he knew he could trust. "Alexis, I meant to ask, how did your chemistry test yesterday go?"

Alexis fretted in her usual perfectionist way about a couple questions whose answers she wasn't sure of but he knew his daughter well enough to guess that it meant that the test had gone pretty well, overall. And from there, it was easy and natural to let Alexis go on chatting about her other classes, her friends, the usual dramas of high school life.

He listened while he ate and made the occasional comment and let the flow of Alexis's cheerful conversation wash over him, distracting him and relaxing him. No matter what happened, he would be fine as long as he had Alexis.

He glanced at Beckett, seeing the faint smile barely playing around the corners of her lips, the brightness of her eyes, as she ate and listened and responded to Alexis from time to time, and felt hope sprouting in his chest, his natural optimism reasserting itself. She cared about his daughter, liked him as a friend, was thankful for him as her colleague and shadow at work. It wasn't all he wanted but he could build on it, right? Could find ways to nudge them closer. Could—and would—woo her. He was charming; he was good at making people like him, a well-honed skill. And he could tell that Beckett was softening towards him.

Alexis's easy prattle lasted as they all finished their sandwiches and then Alexis excused herself to go to the bathroom, leaving him and Beckett alone for the first time that day.

He filched a fry from Alexis's plate and then caught Beckett's eye. "What? She's done eating and there's no point letting food go to waste."

"Very economical of you," she teased mildly and there was a brief pause and then Beckett asked, more seriously, "You okay?"

He blinked, confused. "Me? Of course, I'm right as rain, although I never really understood that expression," he digressed. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Beckett lifted her shoulders into a small shrug as she busied herself using her fork to rearrange the small bits of bread left on her plate. "Oh, you know. You just saw your ex get married and even if it's over, it's always a little weird to know that an ex has moved on, found someone else, right?"

Oh, right, Kyra. Funny, he'd almost entirely forgotten just why he, Alexis, and Beckett had met up today. Wait. Was she—she was concerned about him, about his emotional state after seeing Kyra—"the one that got away," as he'd described her to Beckett only days ago—get married to someone else. Oh.

He felt a sudden swell of warmth in his chest. He couldn't remember the last time anyone not related to him had cared enough to ask if he was okay, not like this. He might have a lot of friends—people like Montgomery, the boys, Bob Weldon, Cannell, Patterson, Connelly, even Gina (to an extent, when she was in the mood)—but none of them were really the sort to inquire about his emotional well-being, not really. Beckett was asking just as a friend—he knew that—but being Kate Beckett's friend meant a lot. She might be—she was the best friend he had. Huh. His best friend—he'd never stopped to think about it before but it was really true.

Of course he'd known they were friends (now, after she'd finally forgiven him this past fall for looking into her mom's case—and it occurred to him that he was so, so grateful for that and still, a little amazed too because he knew how personally any mention of her mom's case hit Beckett) but belatedly, he realized just what that meant, how important it had really become to him. He'd known he enjoyed her company, of course, but more than that, he realized now, she was the person he would want to talk to about pretty much anything. If he was worried over Alexis or his mother or his writing or pretty much anything (except his feelings for her), he would want to talk to her. And he trusted that she would tell him the truth, not flatter him with what she thought he'd want to hear (definitely not that, Beckett never flattered) or not listen at all and return to her own concerns (as Meredith would have—but then again, he and Meredith had never really been friends). Beckett would listen and she would think about it and she would tell him the truth—and she would lift his mood and brighten his day with her smile and her teasing.

"I'm really fine," he assured her, more earnestly. "It's like I said, it was a long time ago. And I'm not the same person I was back then. Are any of us the same people we were in college?"

Something flickered across her face and he belatedly realized what he'd said. Oh, shit. He hadn't thought what that might remind her of, the reason why Beckett would certainly not feel like the same person she'd been when she started college. Shit. Stupid. He'd forgotten that he needed to be careful of emotional land mines like this when it came to talking to Beckett. It was part of what made her a challenge; she'd been too hurt, was scarred and, yes, vulnerable in a way that no one else he'd ever known was. This was what drew him in too; she was so strong, so capable, that he tended to forget how wounded she still was and then at times like this, he was reminded. And it just captivated him in a way that he couldn't entirely explain except that it made her a challenge and he couldn't help but think that if he could somehow help her, comfort her, it might end up being the best, most worthy, thing he'd ever do in his life, with the exception of being Alexis's dad.

But then she straightened up a little, pushed aside any painful reminders knowing that it hadn't been intentional. And that too was like Beckett. She might be vulnerable but she was never weak. He felt the sudden absurd urge to stand and take her in his arms and assure her that she didn't need to be so strong all the time, that he could be strong for her. But he didn't. He couldn't do that.

She managed a twitch of her lips in half-rueful, half-humorous acknowledgment. "No, you're right. I suppose even you've grown up since your college days."

She was teasing him. As usual. He relaxed a little. This was familiar, easy. This, he could do. He made a face. "Well, I don't know if I'd go that far. Being a grown-up sounds so boring."

"And heaven forbid you ever do anything boring."

"Don't mock, Beckett. I put a lot of effort into avoiding anything boring," he pretended to huff, relaxing as he easily fell into the back-and-forth of their usual banter.

She rolled her eyes but a smile was tugging at the corners of her lips. "Oh, I'm sure you do. It takes so much work to be a perennial Peter Pan."

"Nice use of alliteration there, Beckett. And it really does."

"Such a hard life you lead, Castle," she said with mock commiseration.

He really, really loved it when she teased him. He nodded with exaggerated gravity. "Thank you for acknowledging my trials and tribulations."

Now she laughed and as usual, his heart danced inside his chest, feeling a giddy little thrill of triumph at making her laugh. "You're ridiculous."

"Dad's frequently ridiculous," Alexis chimed in, appearing behind Beckett. "What did he do now?"

He shot Alexis a look of feigned scolding. "Show a little respect for your father, please."

"He was talking about how hard it is for him to avoid being a grown-up."

Alexis heaved an exaggerated, beleaguered sigh. "I know. I've been trying to make him grow up for years now and it's not working."

"Hey!" he protested.

Beckett laughed and he had to fight to keep his pretend scowl of indignation on his face rather than melting into a puddle of delight the way he usually felt like doing when Beckett laughed, her eyes dancing with green and gold sparks of genuine amusement. ( _Get a grip, Rick_.)

Alexis turned to him, no longer smirking. "Say, Dad, Taylor and Paige are out shopping and want to know if I can join them. You don't mind if I head out now, do you?"

"No, go ahead."

"Thanks, Dad. I should be home for dinner but I'll text if something changes." Alexis leaned in to kiss his cheek and as she did so, reached into his jacket pocket and slid out his wallet. "I need more cash," she explained innocently. "You don't mind, right?"

"Would it matter if I did, my little pickpocket?" he asked dryly.

Alexis grinned and pecked his cheek again. "Nope. Thanks, Dad. See you later, Kate. Thanks for the talk."

Beckett smiled and lifted a hand in a small wave. "Anytime, Alexis. Have fun with your friends."

With a breezy "Bye," addressed to both of them, Alexis flitted out of the restaurant.

He turned back from watching Alexis leave to see Beckett raising her eyebrows, a small smile playing around her lips. "What?"

"Does Alexis pick your pocket like that a lot?"

He shrugged. "Not that often; she mostly does it for fun. I did research on pickpocket techniques one time and told her about them."

"Research for another career in case the writing gig didn't work out?"

He chuckled. "Very funny, Beckett. It was research for a book. Anyway, Alexis kinda got a kick out of it and actually, when she tries, she's pretty good at it. She wasn't really trying this time, obviously."

"No, she wasn't subtle about taking money at all."

He made a small face. "She does it for fun and I let her. I'd stop it if I thought it was an issue, her taking money from me without asking, but I know it's not."

"That sure of her?" she asked with only mild curiosity. (Obviously Beckett herself wasn't concerned either.)

"Know how much money she took just now?"

"It looked like $40."

She was, unsurprisingly, exactly right. Detective that she was.

"Right. You want to guess how much cash is in my wallet right now?"

"More than that."

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. He wasn't quite stupid enough to broadcast this in public. "I have more than $400 in cash right now."

She blinked, her eyes going wide. "Why on earth do you carry around that much cash?"

"I'm a bestselling author. Why wouldn't I carry around that much cash?" he riposted.

She rolled her eyes a little. "Oh, of course."

He sat back. "Anyway, so that's how I know. She could have taken more and honestly, it's not like I'd mind that much—she's not that big of a spender—but she never takes much, nowhere near as much as she could."

She smiled. "She's a good kid."

He tried (and failed) not to puff up with pride. "Yeah, she is. I lucked out with her."

"You're a good dad, Castle."

Would it be unmanly of him to swoon? ( _Yes, get a grip, Rick._ ) He managed a small, self-deprecating face, not entirely feigned. "I try. I've mostly tried not to mess her up too much."

"You've done better than that."

He really might swoon. "Thanks. Alexis makes it easy, though."

"I don't doubt that." Now she smirked at him. "She's clearly got more sense and maturity than you do."

Yeah, there was the teasing Beckett he knew and loved.

"I don't know where she gets it. She's like a freak of nature that way," he quipped.

"I think it's the other way around. Alexis is the normal one and you're the freak of nature."

He pulled a face of exaggerated dismay, clutching at his chest. "You wound me, Detective."

She only smirked at him, her eyes dancing, as she took a sip of her water.

She had such gorgeous eyes, he thought, not for the first time.

Said gorgeous eyes were abruptly hidden from him as she lowered her lashes and he realized that his expression might have given away more of his thoughts than he'd thought or intended. ( _Control yourself._ )

Fortunately for his composure, the server chose that moment to return and collect their plates and he got a hold of himself enough to request the check.

Beckett excused herself to wash her hands and he made a concerted effort not to stare at the sway of her hips as she walked away.

(He needed to stop mooning over her so obviously or there was no way he'd survive working with her in the precinct. If only because both Esposito and Ryan would mock him mercilessly.)

Right, he could control himself. He was a grown man, in total control of his own eyes and actions.

Beckett returned and he schooled his expression into a mild, if sincere, smile. "So I forgot to thank you earlier."

"Thank me for what?"

"For talking to Alexis about colleges." He made a small face. "I didn't know she was fretting over the whole thing so much or I would have talked to her about it myself."

"No need to thank me, Castle. I think Alexis probably figured that she wanted to get an unbiased opinion about whether to go far away for college. She already knows you want her to stay close."

He grimaced, feeling a little better about Alexis not confiding in him. Beckett had a point, as usual. "You're right. Well, thank you for that. Although," he added pointedly, "not for encouraging Alexis to experiment in college."

She smirked at him. "I'm betting you experimented with all sorts of things and were a troublemaker in college just like you are now."

"And that's how I know I don't want Alexis doing any such thing," he retorted immediately.

"Oh come on, Castle, Alexis is a good, smart kid. I can't see her getting into that much trouble."

"No thanks to your advice," he pretended to grumble.

"Sorry," she said unrepentantly.

"You are so not sorry."

She grinned. "No, I'm really not. Alexis will be fine, Castle. She's smart and mature, remember?"

He relented and smiled. "Yeah, I know. I'll worry but I do trust her. She—" he broke off as the server returned with the check, grabbing it before the server could put it down on the table.

He waved a hand as Beckett reached for her purse. "Nuh uh, Beckett, I've got this."

"Castle, I can pay for my own lunch," she protested.

He fixed her with his best implacable look. "Nope. You're here because you accepted an invitation from my kid to answer her questions about college, which means this is on me."

"Castle."

For once, he resisted her tone, shooting her a half-teasing smirk instead. "Think of it this way. I'll get lunch today and you can get it next time," he promised.

"What makes you so sure there's going to be a next time?"

"Of course there's going to be a next time, Beckett. Come on, now, admit it," he cajoled. "You like having me around."

She narrowed her eyes at him but he saw the faint smirk tugging at the corners of her lips, betraying her. "What gave you that crazy idea?"

"You said it yourself, that I make things more fun."

He saw the spark of memory in her eyes—of course she remembered—but predictably she didn't give in. "Temporary insanity, brought on by a food coma," she countered.

He had to grin at that. "Nuh uh, Beckett, no take-backs allowed. Admit it, you like having me around," he sing-songed.

She huffed. "You're annoying."

"But you still like having me around."

A definite smirk was playing around her lips. "Maybe. Sometimes. Just a little bit."

He laughed. "Gee, Beckett, could you possibly sound a little more uncertain?"

She pretended to think about it. "Maybe."

He grinned. Oh, he did love it when she teased him. "Well, let me know when you make up your mind about me."

"I'll do that."

He had finished paying during this little bout of banter and now quirked his eyebrows at her. "Ready to go?"

"Ready to get away from you, definitely," she quipped.

"I'm hurt, Beckett."

"You are not."

"If you cut me, will I not bleed?"

"We could always try it and find out," she suggested, mischief dancing in her eyes. (Kate Beckett, mischievous—who knew? And she was adorable.)

He gave her a look of feigned horror. "No, thank you."

She pretended to sigh. "Well, it was worth a try."

"Mean, Beckett."

"Only because you deserve it, Castle," she said lightly.

"I don't think I like you anymore," he pouted mendaciously. (He was going to like her forever.)

"Does that mean you'll stop pulling my pigtails?"

"Never," he declared, entirely sincerely this time. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"Too bad," she joked but the words were belied by the real, bright smile she gave him and the warmth in her eyes. "I think I'll just call a cab from here. I have some errands to run."

"Is it shopping? I'm very useful for carrying around shopping bags," he offered, only half-facetiously.

She laughed. "I think I'll manage without you, Castle. Thanks for lunch."

"Anytime."

A cab pulled up and she opened the door and then glanced back at him, lifting Kyra's bouquet up in a teasing salute. "See you later, Castle."

He forgot how to breathe. God, the sight of Kate Beckett glancing back over her shoulder, smiling so brightly, with flowers in her hand and the sun illuminating her face and bringing out reddish glints in her hair—Aphrodite could have had nothing on Kate Beckett.

"See you later," he echoed.

She threw him a last smile before sliding into the cab.

He watched her go, with hope burning bright and clear in his heart. Yeah, Kate Beckett really liked him. And for now, that was enough.

 _~To be continued…~_

 _A/N 2: Thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed, followed, or added this fic to their favorites._


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Consider this the calm before the storm that will be "Sucker Punch."

 **For All That You Are**

 _Chapter 7_

Something was bothering Castle.

Something was bothering Castle and by extension, that was bothering her.

Kate wasn't sure she liked this sort of emotional transference as it were and she didn't know when it had happened either that Castle's moods could affect her so much but she couldn't deny it either. Something was bothering Castle and that bothered her.

Because they were _friends_ , she told herself, and friends cared about each other. Just like Lanie checked in to make sure things were all right and then nagged when she sensed something was off.

Just friends. Never mind that things felt so much more… personal… with Castle, never mind that she wondered what it would be like to kiss him and touch him and be held by him. ( _Never gonna happen, Kate, stop it._ ) Never mind that she felt traitorous little flutters inside her at the sight of his smile or the sound of his voice sometimes.

She was Detective Beckett, Grade-One, NYPD. She was a grown-up and she was entirely in control of her own actions and emotions. Really. She could compartmentalize and keep any wayward thoughts and feelings safely locked away and she could absolutely resist Castle. Not that there was anything to resist. ( _Except that annoying physical attraction_. But that was just physical, nothing more. Really.)

She wasn't going to let herself fall for him. Wasn't going to fall for him, period.

They were just friends and she was totally fine with that.

Yes, she and Castle were friends and that was why it bothered her so much to see that his normally bright eyes were dull and his occasional smiles never quite reached his eyes and he was just not his usual bouncy, fidgety self.

She knew him now and she'd realized that when Castle was troubled or unhappy, he didn't fidget. Normally, of course, he was a fidgeter, seemingly incapable of sitting still for longer than a minute at a time. It drove her crazy.

But today, he wasn't fidgeting. And she decided she hated that too.

(Great, she was becoming an exercise in illogic, she thought irritably. First, his fidgeting drove her crazy and now, his not-fidgeting was disturbing her.)

But it was just not _right_ ; it seemed like something against nature, like a snowstorm in July, to have Castle sitting in his usual spot beside her desk and so still. It wasn't that obvious; he was playing a game on his phone as he often did on paperwork days but she knew him, knew the way he acted when he played his games, the faces he often made in triumph or frustration, and it wasn't the same. He kept getting distracted, his fingers pausing as his gaze grew abstracted, and it wasn't the same sort of distraction that happened when he got an idea for a story either. It was different, although she couldn't quite pinpoint in what way, except that his eyes were clouded over.

"Okay, Castle, what is it?"

He blinked and looked up at her. "What is what?"

"What's wrong?"

"How do you know something's wrong?" he parried automatically.

"Telepathy."

That got him to grin. "Really? That would be so awesome. I always knew you had super-powers, Beckett."

She bit back a smile. "Don't be ridiculous, Castle. Super-powers aren't real."

He pulled an exaggerated pout. "Must you spoil all my fun?"

"It's my job," she quipped and then added more seriously, "Now come on, Castle, out with it, what's wrong?"

He grimaced and sighed a little. "It's my mother."

"What did you do to Martha now?"

He heaved a beleaguered sigh. "Why do you assume I did something?"

"I've heard the way you talk to your mom, Castle," she retorted dryly.

He opened his mouth, closed it, and then made a face. "Conceded, but in this case, I haven't done anything, at least not yet, and that's part of the problem."

She frowned a little. This was sounding rather more involved than she'd thought. On a sudden impulse she didn't think to question, she stood up, making him startle a little and blink at her.

"Where are you going?"

"Come on, Castle. I seem to remember that I owe you lunch," she said lightly.

His eyes, his entire expression, lit up as he scrambled to his feet. "Really? You're going to buy me lunch?"

She felt her heart give that traitorous little flutter at the sight of his smile, the way he'd brightened up so much. She wanted to cheer him up and already she'd succeeded. She sternly tried to quell the silly pleasure sprouting up inside her at the thought. "I'm hungry and it sounds like your story will take a while." It would be easier to talk outside of the bullpen without all the other eyes and ears around. And she really was hungry and friends could have lunch together.

"In that case, how can I say no?"

When did he ever say no to anything she asked of him? He didn't. She felt a dangerous warmth blossom in her chest because it really was true. She sometimes wondered why but she could hardly deny that he really liked her, as lame as that sounded. He had meant it when he said he was thankful for her; he just… appreciated her, everything she did or said, like no one she'd ever known, with the possible exception of her dad. And it was so disarming and flattering too.

"Yo, Beckett, where are you off to?" Espo's voice broke into her thoughts—fortunately, reminding her that she really shouldn't be dwelling on Castle like this. "You skipping out on paperwork?"

"Just going out for lunch," she answered. "Paperwork will keep for an hour or so."

"Lucky you," he retorted.

"Yeah, bring us back something, will you?" Ryan chimed in.

"Don't worry, guys, I've got your back," Castle assured them with a conspiratorial grin.

Ryan bumped Castle's fist in thanks and acknowledgement. "Thanks."

Espo nodded at Castle. "My man."

"Can't let you guys starve on my watch, can I? Who else will protect me from Beckett?"

"Who said we'll protect you from Beckett? Beckett goes after you, you're on your own, bro. Gotta look out for numero uno," Espo shot back.

Kate pursed her lips to keep from smiling at Castle's histrionic look of dismay.

"Nothing like a life-threatening hypothetical to show you who your true friends are," he groused.

"Don't worry, Castle," she quipped lightly. "I promise to give you fair warning before I shoot you."

"Thank you, Beckett, that's so comforting," he said ironically, hurrying to join her at the elevator door.

She shrugged. "My advice, just try not to make me want to shoot you."

"Good tip, since not getting shot is pretty high on my to-do list."

She had to grin at that. "A worthy goal," she teased.

He threw her a smirk. "I'm ambitious like that."

"Oh, very. Next thing, you'll tell me you also want to not get hit by lightning."

He affected a look of shock. "And you say you're not telepathic."

"Nah, you're just easy to read."

"I'll have you know I have a great poker face. Just ask Cannell or Patterson."

"I'd love to. It'd be a nice change to talk to some good mystery writers," she teased.

He gave her a nod of mock gravity. "As opposed to the truly sublime mystery writer you're used to talking to, yes I know."

She snorted. "I think your ego's so massive, it's in danger of blocking out the sun."

They stepped outside into the bright sunshine and he made a point of squinting up at it and then back at her before asking, "So where were you thinking of going for lunch, Beckett? Ooh, there's this great burger place just a few blocks from here that also has these milkshakes and—"

Wait. "Remy's?" she interrupted him.

"You know about Remy's?"

"Of course I know about Remy's. It's got the best burgers within 10 blocks of the precinct. How do you know about Remy's?"

"Alexis once had a good friend who lived on the same block so I used to stop in there after dropping Alexis off and I kept coming back because its burgers are great and I like their fries too."

"Remy's it is, then," Kate grinned, absurdly pleased that she and Castle apparently liked the same burger place. First, there had been Hanigan's that she'd really liked (and already planned to return to at some point, maybe for her next lunch with Lanie) and now Remy's. It was, she thought, another thing to like about Castle. He might be rich enough and connected enough to go to expensive, exclusive restaurants like Le Cirque or Jean Georges every day but she was finding that his tastes were much simpler than that. He might be a multi-millionaire but he wasn't pretentious about his wealth either—even if he did carry around $400 in cash on a regular basis. He was, as odd as it seemed to say about someone who boasted so routinely, down-to-earth. He was real.

The walk to Remy's took only about 10 minutes and they walked it mostly in companionable silence. It had surprised Kate to find that Castle was even capable of such an easy silence but he was and in these moments, she sometimes found herself forgetting just how irritating he could still be. She glanced over at him occasionally as they walked and felt her heart stutter a little in her chest at the brightness of his eyes, the small smile playing around his lips, as he walked with his usual easy stride. She suddenly remembered Alexis saying that Castle was happier since he'd started working with her; she had mostly dismissed that as not being about her personally but about her unwitting role in inspiring Nikki Heat but now, looking at Castle, she believed it. He was happy to spend time with her…

And that too was what made him so dangerous (to her).

When they reached Remy's, he almost leaped ahead to get to the door and Kate, amused, for once let him open the door for her with a brief, "Thanks," accompanied by a faintly teasing quirk of her eyebrows.

Knowing him, she wasn't sure why she was surprised when one of the waitresses who looked up at their entrance immediately lit up, hurrying over to greet them. "Ricky, welcome back!" Really, was there a woman in Manhattan under the age of 70 that he hadn't charmed? (Sheila Blaine, her mind immediately supplied—but then again, that might just be proof that Sheila wasn't a woman but an alien, Kate thought sardonically—and then abruptly caught herself up. Oh geez, she really had been spending way too much time with Castle.)

She glanced at Castle to see that he'd immediately assumed one of his charming smiles, the one she'd seen at his book launch parties as he signed women's chests, the one that had made it so easy to dismiss him as just another playboy flirt, the one designed to give heart palpitations to any woman with a pulse.

Except for Kate. (Nope, she wasn't reacting. Really.) She should have been immune to his charming smile; she had a rather healthy distrust of too-charming men, having seen too much of how they skated through life and in and out of women's beds, making women feel alive but always leaving in the end. Too-charming men were not reliable.

But she found that none of that helped right now, not to give her an immunity to Castle's charming smile, because now she knew he was more than the playboy flirt, saw past the façade. She knew the real Rick Castle and the real Rick Castle was very… likable and, yes, charming. ( _Damn it, stop it!_ )

"Susan, as always, you are a sight for sore eyes," Castle greeted the waitress. "Better is a dinner of herbs with the sight of your smiling face than a steak without," he declared flamboyantly, making the woman laugh and flap a dismissive hand, even as she blushed like a girl.

He was an incorrigible flirt. But for the first time, it occurred to Kate that his charm and, yes, his flirtatiousness was also a kindness. To make Susan, a woman who was on the wrong side of 60 and even in her youth, had most likely not been a beauty (Kate's brief stint as a model had taught her something of how to assess a woman's bone structure and general features to identify a person's potential for good looks), blush and flutter and at least for a moment, feel young and pretty. Yes, it was a kind thing to do.

Kate had been pretty for her entire life (well, aside from a gawky, awkward phase in high school); vanity aside, she knew that, and she'd faced the usual struggle to be taken seriously and not dismissed because of her looks, not helped by the profession she'd chosen where looks in a woman tended to be a liability rather than an asset. Compliments and admiring looks were not something Kate set much store by and usually even something of an irritant, but she could understand that it wouldn't be like that for someone who hadn't been born with good looks. When was the last time a woman like Susan would have had a handsome, charming man pay her such flattering compliments with all apparent sincerity?

"None of your flummery now, Ricky. Who's your pretty friend?"

"Susan, this is Detective Kate Beckett. Beckett, this is Susan, the best waitress at Remy's."

Susan turned to Kate with a smile. "Nice to meet you, Detective. I know I've seen you in here a few times but I had no idea you were a police detective."

Kate returned Susan's smile. "Hello, Susan."

"Beckett's the best cop in the city," Castle inserted.

Absurdly, Kate found herself ducking her head in an attempt to shield her heated cheeks with her hair because he sounded almost… proud… (Damn it, why weren't people gifted with the ability to control their blushes?)

"Now, Ricky, what kind of trouble are you into this time, to be spending time with a police detective?"

Castle pasted on a saintly look. "No trouble, just research for my books, that's all, I promise."

Susan wagged a finger at Castle as she led them to a table. "Don't give me that innocent look. You've got troublemaker written all over you, Ricky."

"Beckett here keeps me on the straight and narrow," Castle returned, pretending to pout. "She won't let me get into trouble. She's a spoilsport that way."

Susan laughed. "You do that, Detective. Someone needs to keep an eye on him."

Kate threw Castle a smirk before answering Susan. "Don't worry. I'm well aware of Castle's troublemaker tendencies."

"Good." Susan handed them the menus. "I'll be right back with some water for you."

As Susan left, Kate raised her eyebrows at Castle. "You weren't kidding when you said you've kept coming back to Remy's."

Castle shrugged a little. "I told you, I love the burgers here. And Susan is really one of the nicest waitresses I've ever met."

"You certainly appear to be one of her favorite customers."

He pretended to preen. "Can I help it if people like me?"

She smirked at him. "That's only because they haven't spent enough time with you."

"Hey!"

She laughed. "Oh come on, Castle, you walked right into that one."

He made a face at her. "You think you're so funny, don't you, Beckett?"

"I can make you laugh, can't I?"

His expression softened as he gave her one of his real smiles. "Yeah, you really can."

Something about his tone, his look, made her feel abruptly self-conscious— _he cares about you, Katie_ —and she made a show of spreading open the menu and propping it up so she could take refuge behind it. "So what do you think you'll order?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

He took her cue and opened up his own menu, although he barely glanced at it before closing it again. "I'll have my usual, the Remy's bacon cheeseburger and a chocolate shake."

"Nice."

Thankfully, Susan returned with their waters and took their orders, providing a distraction, and Kate sternly reminded herself that she and Castle were only friends and anyway, she'd had a purpose in bringing him here. Talking about whatever was wrong with Martha would be a safe topic.

"So, what's up with Martha?"

Castle sobered and grimaced. "Oh, right. Well, she's having some issues with some of her co-stars in her play. Apparently, at a rehearsal the other day, my mother, being her usual self, decided to give one of her co-stars, the one who plays the young female lead, the benefit of her unsolicited advice."

"Ah." Kate made a sympathetic face. "I take it this co-star didn't appreciate the advice."

"That would be an understatement. She basically attacked my mother for it, saying my mother was past her prime and just because she had decades of experience didn't mean she actually had any talent, let alone the right to give advice."

Kate winced. "Ouch. Poor Martha."

"Right. I mean, you know my mother. She talks tough but she's got a soft, gooey center and since she did have good intentions and was only trying to be helpful, in her own somewhat meddling way..." He trailed off, making an expressive face.

"I can imagine."

"My mother says she tried to explain but this co-star, being, well, a diva, didn't exactly accept the apology and one of the other actors, one of the male leads, is taking this diva's side. It would be one thing if they just weren't friendly to my mother but now, the last couple days in rehearsal, they've been doing little things to try to throw my mother off her game, like doing something to make some noise like _accidentally_ knocking over a chair or something when my mother's about to speak. It's rather upsetting my mother, as you might imagine."

"And that's upsetting you," Kate finished.

He lifted one shoulder into a half-shrug, looking rather sheepish as if it were a bad thing to care about his mother's feelings. He was adorable. ( _Stop it! No, he was not adorable._ ) "I don't know what to do, Beckett."

"I don't really see what you can do except try to comfort Martha when she's at home, be nice to her, get her some flowers or something to cheer her up."

He gave a wry little smile. "You don't know my mother very well if you think a measly bouquet will cheer her up that much. She prefers something with a larger price tag. I don't know, I just feel like I should step in, do something to make her co-stars stop."

She could understand that, but what could he do? "Want me to arrest them?" she asked facetiously.

His eyes brightened with humor. "Ooh, would you, really, Beckett?"

She gave him a look. "Have you met me? Of course I wouldn't. I hate to break it to you but hurting your mother's feelings or even pulling little pranks to give her a hard time is not a crime," she said mildly.

He pretended to pout. "It was worth a try." He sobered. "I don't know, I was thinking of intervening, going to see them."

Going to see them—that was vague. "What are you going to do, beat them up? Because I should warn you, as a cop, I can't condone assault." she added, half-jokingly.

He made a small face in acknowledgment of her humor. "No, not beat them up. Anyway, I couldn't hit a woman. No, I was thinking more just talking to them."

"And asking them nicely to stop being mean to your mother?"

He made a face. "Well, yes, in a way but also…" he hesitated and then went on, "I know people, celebrity reporters, and I could talk to a few of them, drop a few hints, and well, if these co-stars of my mother's _happened_ to develop a reputation for being toxic co-stars, they might find it hard to find any more work on Broadway."

Yes, she believed Castle could do that. He had connections, she knew, and would certainly know the celebrity beat reporters. It was also like him to use his power to protect, to defend someone he cared about. He liked to help people, as he'd done for Kyra, was kind, as he'd been to Scarlett Price, the call-girl.

She could understand his motivations, even approve of them, but she couldn't think his plan was really wise, either.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Castle," she said mildly only to be interrupted as Susan returned with their food.

Castle rallied enough to give Susan another of his charming smiles and a word of thanks but the smile dropped from his lips as Susan left them. "Why not?"

"I can't tell you what to do," she began cautiously.

That got her a small smirk. "Really? Doesn't seem to have stopped you before."

"I can't tell you what to do when it comes to something personal, not involving the precinct," she clarified pointedly.

He gave her the faint beginnings of a smile. "I know, Beckett."

"Not that you listen when I tell you what to do," she added in a dry aside before going on soberly, "but in this case, for what it's worth, I don't think you should do anything to intervene. I understand that you want to but your mom's not a child who needs protecting. She's a grown-up and I'm sure she's had to deal with disagreements with fellow cast members before."

"She has, but those times, I couldn't do anything because I was little or away at boarding school or something. Now, I can do something," Castle interjected.

"Castle, your mom's going to have to deal with mean cast-members in the future too; you can't protect her from ever getting her feelings hurt. We can never completely protect anyone from that. It's just a part of life. And I'm pretty sure it won't exactly help your mom's reputation among her fellow cast members if her son were to go barging in there, making threats to some of the cast members, in her defense."

He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it, then made a face. "No, you're right. It wouldn't. And come to think of it, my mother would find out about it and she wouldn't be happy about it either." He sighed. "So I'm just supposed to sit here and do nothing?"

She gave a wryly sympathetic grimace. "Yes. Also, you can go buy Martha something to cheer her up, stock up on ice cream, whatever will make her feel better."

"I foresee jewelry shopping in my future."

"How positively prescient of you," she teased.

She was rewarded by a faint smile, his eyes brightening. (When had she started thinking of his smiles in terms of a reward of any sort? No, they weren't. They were just smiles. And if she liked to see them, well, they were friends and everyone liked to see someone smile, right?)

"Thank you, Beckett."

He had such impossibly blue eyes, filled with so much warmth that she felt it as if the sun had focused entirely on her. She sternly tried to tamp down the fluttering of her heart and managed a light smile. "Our burgers are getting cold," was all she said.

His smile widened even as his expression softened. She had the sudden sense that he could see right through her, knew how he affected her and knew exactly why she was deflecting. (Shit, why did he have to know her so well?) "Right, we should eat."

They ate.

Conversation became general, falling back into their usual banter. They chatted idly about the one case they'd solved since Sophie Ronson's, a straightforward pop-and-drop during a convenience store hold-up, quickly closed because the perp had gotten his face caught on a security camera. She asked about Alexis and he told her about the latest high school drama between Alexis and her school friend, Lacey. He asked about her dad and she told him about a funny story from her dad's work that her dad had told her the last time they'd met up for dinner.

He finished his fries first and then stole a fry from her plate and she made a half-hearted attempt to swat his hand away and he smirked at her.

"Hands off my food, Castle."

He pouted but then a few minutes later, he filched another fry.

She tried to glare at him but didn't think it was working or he was just impervious. She gave up. It wasn't as if she normally finished her fries.

It was just… fun… and Kate was reminded that when Castle wasn't playing a jackass or his playboy self, he was good company. She really did like spending time with him. Not that she was going to tell him that in so many words. And not that it meant anything. They were friends; of course she liked spending time with him.

Castle ordered two burgers to go for Espo and Ryan, making a point of telling Susan to put these burgers on a separate check. Kate demurred but he overrode her by pretending to whine, "How am I supposed to bribe them if you keep preventing me?"

She rolled her eyes but let him have his way on that. And it had nothing to do with the brightness of his eyes or the maddening upwards quirk of his lips that drew her attention to his mouth.

She paid for their burgers and he thanked her lightly but the look in his eyes had her needing to look away, averting her gaze, because he looked at her as if she'd just handed him the moon and the stars. (No, stop it. He didn't and she hadn't. And either way, it didn't change anything.)

They said their goodbyes to Susan with Castle theatrically kissing his fingers to her as he declaimed, "Until next time, oh fair Susan."

Susan laughed and flapped a dismissive hand. "Oh, get along with you, you young flirt. Bye, Detective."

"Bye, Susan. It was nice meeting you."

The walk back to the precinct was filled up this time with some of Castle's characteristic patter as he made up (mostly ridiculous) stories about other pedestrians on the street. Kate made the occasional sardonic retort but had to bite her lip and duck her head to keep from smiling, one hand automatically coming up to wind a lock of hair around her finger. He was silly but it was a nice break in the middle of her day of tedious paperwork to have some nonsense to laugh over. This was what he did for her, she thought, not for the first time. He made her laugh. And laughter had been in short supply in her life for so many years, dealing with death and darkness every day as she did.

He handed the burgers to the boys with exaggerated ceremony (which the boys received with an enthusiasm only marginally less than that given to soldiers returning home from battle) and then fell into step beside her on the way to her desk, where he paused, not resuming his seat.

She glanced up at him. "You waiting for my permission to sit down or what, Castle?"

"Haha, no, I was just going to say that I think since it's a paperwork day, I'll head out to get something for my mother like you suggested. That is, if you think you can manage without me."

She rolled her eyes. "As if you ever help with paperwork anyway. I'll probably get more done without you distracting me."

He pulled a pout. "Well, call me if you miss me too much or if you just want more coffee or anything."

"I'll manage. Go buy a gift for Martha, Castle."

"See you tomorrow, Beckett."

Tomorrow. He would be back tomorrow even if it was likely to be another paperwork day. Not that she cared if he showed up or not. He could do whatever he wanted to.

"See you tomorrow," she echoed.

Kate sternly kept her eyes fixed on the paperwork she was currently filling out. She wasn't going to look up, wasn't going to watch him leave, wasn't going to gaze after him like some lovesick teen. She wasn't.

She heard the familiar bell tone as the elevator door slid open and the sound drew her gaze of its own volition and she looked up. To meet his eyes as he was already, still, looking back at her. Even from across the bullpen, she saw the corners of his mouth lift into a small smile, one of his real smiles, untinged by smugness. And even though she couldn't see it from that distance, she knew the way the smile would brighten his eyes. Her lungs abruptly ceased to function, her breath stalling in her chest, for a few seconds. God, he looked good. Ruggedly handsome, his voice inserted in her mind.

And then he was inside the elevator and the door was sliding closed, blocking him from her view, and she remembered how to breathe.

It was nothing, she told herself. She had eyes and he was an attractive man, that was all. Any woman with eyes and a pulse would appreciate the sight.

But it occurred to her to be relieved, for once, that Castle was gone for the day. Clearly, she needed some distance and time to reinforce her lack of romantic feelings for Castle.

But he was back the next day. Of course he was.

And he brought her coffee. But instead of a bear claw, he placed a small white gift box on her desk.

She blinked at it. "What's this?"

"Open it."

She did—and had to laugh. It was a white rubber keychain, one of those personalized ones spelling out a name in raised multi-colored letters. It read 'Nikki.'

"I saw it when I was out yesterday looking for a gift for my mother and thought of you."

"You realize that's not actually my name, right?" she managed to quip.

He only grinned, looking absurdly boyish and pleased with himself. (Adorable. _Shut up!_ ) "Do you have any idea how rare it is to see the name Nikki on one of those personalized keychains? I've never seen it before so when I saw this, I had to get it."

"This seems like more of a gift for your own ego than for me," she teased, "since Nikki Heat is mostly a product of your over-active imagination."

"You're welcome," he responded airily.

She quirked her eyebrows at him and picked up the keychain, realizing that there was a small metal tag already on the keyring. Engraved on the tag in simple cursive script was a single word: _Remarkable_.

Oh. Oh, _damn_. He did make it hard to resist him sometimes…

Not that there was anything to resist since she _wasn't_ going to fall for him.

"I looked but they didn't have the word 'extraordinary.' Sorry. I know it's not the same but I'm throwing myself on your mercy."

Silly man.

And there he went again, making her laugh and, too, allowing her the safety of humor to deflect from emotion. (God, he did know her well.) "I'll allow it, just this once," she quipped but then she met his eyes and smiled, for once letting her eyes and her smile say all she couldn't say, how much she appreciated this, his… niceness, for lack of a better word. "Thanks, Castle."

"Anytime," was all he said, simply, but his eyes were much more eloquent, filled with so much light and warmth that it affected her like… one of her dad's hugs or a mug of the special hot chocolate her mom used to make for her, she thought rather fuzzily.

She felt a flare of panic. Oh god, what was she thinking?!

She averted her eyes, reaching into her purse and attaching the new Nikki keychain onto her existing keyring.

"How's Martha doing?" she asked, schooling her tone into one of bland concern.

"She's doing better. She really liked the bracelet I got her so that cheered her up. My wallet isn't quite as happy," he added jokingly.

"Says the multi-millionaire."

"Compared to the Wellesley family, I'm a pauper," he returned.

"Compared to the Wellesley family, practically everyone is a pauper."

"Touché. Well, my mother liked the bracelet. She, Alexis, and I had ice cream sundaes and my mother finished off a bottle of very nice wine that I had stashed away in the very back of my wine cooler because I've been saving it for some special occasion. But Martha Rodgers has a special radar for finding expensive wines and all my efforts at concealment weren't proof against it," he pretended to gripe. "And to make it worse, I barely got to drink any." He pulled a mock tragic face.

She bit her lip to hide a smile. Oh, this man. This ridiculous, funny, warm-hearted man.

"How very sad for you," she pretended to commiserate.

He heaved an exaggerated beleaguered sigh. "I know. It's very sad. And that was the last bottle of that wine I had too and now it's all gone."

"'Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio,'" she quoted in affected lament. And then found herself thinking that the next lines, "a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy" might have been written for Castle.

He abruptly looked delighted. "You got it right!"

She blinked. "What?"

"The quote! Everyone misquotes it, saying 'alas, poor Yorick. I knew him well,' but that's wrong and it drives me nuts."

She laughed at the face he made. "It's tough to be you, isn't it."

"I'm a writer, Beckett. Of course I hate misquotations."

"I'm glad to have lived up to your authorial expectations," she quipped.

"No, you always exceed my expectations," he said with sudden seriousness. She heard his voice in her mind. _I meant it, you are extraordinary._

She ducked her head, wishing her hair was longer so it could more effectively conceal the blush she knew was heating her cheeks. And felt a flutter inside her of mingled panic and a softer emotion that she didn't try to identify. God, the things he said, his unstinting faith in her. It was amazing and humbling and overwhelming and a little terrifying because he always meant it and she didn't know what he saw in her that merited such belief.

"I'm glad Martha's feeling more cheerful," she deflected, infusing her tone with as much blandness as she could.

"She is. She says hello, by the way, as does Alexis."

She smiled. "Say hi to them for me too."

He returned the smile and then, thankfully, her desk phone rang, distracting them both.

Kate snapped back into work mode, answering her phone crisply. "Beckett."

She was Detective Beckett, NYPD, 12th Precinct homicide division, not some blushing ingenue. She was in total control of her life and her own actions.

And she _wasn't_ falling for Castle.

 _~To be continued…~_

A/N 2: Thanks, as always, for reading and reviewing.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: It looks like ff. net suffered from glitches last week so emails about updates were not sent out so if anyone missed Chapter 7, posted last week, you should go back and read it now.

Getting into "Sucker Punch" in this chapter so there's some familiar dialogue ahead. Be warned, this is a rather heavy, emotional chapter (for obvious reasons).

 **For All That You Are**

 _Chapter 8_

It took her two tries to open her door.

Her fingers were trembling so that she had trouble fitting the key into the lock but she managed it and then she was almost stumbling inside her apartment.

She'd held it together in the precinct because she had to, cramming her feelings as much as possible behind a padlocked steel door, controlling her inner trembling. She didn't know how she'd made it through the drive home but now, she found herself giving way to the torrent of emotion, the walls she'd put up against her emotions crumbling down.

She staggered over to the couch and fell onto it, with something between a gasp and a whimper, and then suddenly she was sobbing, jagged sobs ripping from her throat.

 _Oh mom mom mom…_

She wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging them, as she quaked in the emotional turmoil.

Dr. Murray's words, clinical descriptions of the wounds, echoed inside her mind. _Rectangular bruising caused by the hilt of the knife striking with force enough to compress the skin…_ She saw the pictures in her mind, not of Jack Coonan's body, but the autopsy pictures from her own mother's case file, which were seared onto her brain from the hours she'd spent poring over her mom's case file. The gaping wounds, slashing across her mother's skin.

 _Kills with a single blow…_

Oh god. She saw it all in her mind. The deserted alley. A dark, faceless shadow of a man, the knife—she knew exactly what the knife looked like this time—the blade glinting evilly in her fevered imagining—the strike, the fatal blow. Her mom crying out, falling to the ground. Her body bleeding out. Dying.

The other repeated blows. _Other wounds to camouflage the skill with which the initial stroke was delivered._

The details. The knife, the replica of which she'd held in her hand. _Special Operations Group knife…_

Her hand closed into a fist, the nails digging into her palm.

She pictured it again, saw the knife sliding into her mom's body—

Oh god.

She scrambled to her feet and half-stumbled, half-ran into the bathroom, falling on her knees by the toilet, and retched up the contents of her mostly empty stomach, dry-heaving until her stomach muscles and her throat ached.

She didn't know how long she stayed there, hanging over the toilet, but gradually, she became aware that her knees were aching from the fall onto the hard tile, and she was getting stiff. Moving slowly, creakily, feeling as if she'd aged by 20 years, Kate forced herself to her feet, brushing her teeth and rinsing out her mouth by rote and then splashing water over her face.

Feeling marginally more herself again, she emerged and slowly returned to the couch, detouring along the way by the side table and grabbing up the framed picture of her parents on it, focusing on her mom's smiling face.

So bright, so beautiful. Kate knew she looked like her mom but to her eyes, her mom had been prettier; pictures could never capture the radiance of her mom's smiles, the way her mom's smile had been able to make the young Katie feel like the sun had focused all its warmth just on her.

She heard her mom's well-remembered voice in her head. _I'm so proud of you, my Katie-girl…_

She flinched, another sob building in her throat. She put down the picture. No, it hurt too much to look at her mom's smiling face, to remember her so vividly as she'd been. Hurt too much when contrasted with the clinical description of her mom's fatal wounds running through her mind.

A sound, part sob, part gasp, escaped her throat and she collapsed back onto the couch. Oh god, she couldn't do this.

She couldn't. This was why she'd fled the precinct.

It hurt. It hurt _so much_.

To know what her mom had suffered, the gratuitous violence inflicted on her mom's body with the unnecessary stab wounds when the first one had been fatal. So much violence, so much force in the blows…

Something like a wail ripped from her and she keened. She sounded like a wounded animal.

Desperately, she glanced around the room for something—anything—to hold onto, to give her strength now when she needed it.

Her wildly searching gaze fell on her bookshelf—on the row of distinctive books on one shelf, the many echoes of the so-familiar name leaping out at her.

Richard Castle. Richard Castle. Richard Castle.

She scrambled to her feet, headed straight to the bookshelf, grabbing _Storm Warning_ off the shelf.

She opened it to the title page, her eyes immediately falling to what she knew she'd find. The reason she'd grabbed this book out of all his others.

His familiar hasty scrawl. _To Kate. "If you want peace, fight for justice." Richard Castle._

Derrick Storm's motto. The words that had challenged her, inspired her, kept her going all those years ago.

His words. His world—and the hope for justice in them.

She closed the book and hugged it to herself, clutching it like a lifeline, the physical manifestation of the encouragement and strength she'd found in his words so many years ago.

Now, reeling, she needed them again.

 _If you want peace, fight for justice._

The words rang in her mind, in his voice, even though she'd never heard him say them aloud.

And then, his voice again, with words she really had heard him say: _Most people come up against a wall, they give up. Not you. You don't let go. You don't back down. That's what makes you extraordinary._

The words seemed to galvanize her brain back into action and Kate slowly released her stranglehold on the book, although she kept it in her hands, as if it were a talisman of strength, as she straightened up on the couch.

 _You don't back down._ No, she didn't.

Gradually, the fog of emotion cleared as she stopped simply feeling and started to think, her training belatedly kicking in.

A contract killer. Four other murders, three of them right around the same time as her mother's. The wound similarity that made up the killer's MO.

The coroner who had worked on her mom's case initially—Martin Tishler—hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. Random gang violence, just some nameless thugs. When it hadn't been random, hadn't been ordinary at all. There'd been precision, intent, training. And Tishler hadn't realized. Hadn't told her. Deliberately?—she didn't know. Did it matter anymore? _Yes_ , it still mattered.

The surge of anger she felt did more to dry her tears than anything else probably could have.

Oh god, if she'd known this sooner… This changed everything, the entire complexion of the case. Not just one murder but five murders—a contract killer.

But she hadn't known.

In all the hours—years—Kate had spent obsessively scrutinizing every word, every detail in her mom's case file, she hadn't seen it. But she didn't have the necessary medical training to do so either; she'd been focused on the other physical evidence, what little there was of it, her mom's life. Trying to find a motive—the endless question of a homicide detective, _cui bono_.

A professional. Someone with extensive military training.

A contract killer.

It hadn't been personal.

Kate had come across a few mercenaries in her time—not many as most people lacked the resources to hire professional killers—it came up most often in gang contexts—and she'd seen how detached they were from the taking of a life. These were people who didn't care, whose blood ran ice cold.

A contract killer—which meant money.

Her mom had been killed for money.

 _Oh mom…_

She couldn't decide if that made it better or worse.

Kate had seen a lot of the stupid, petty, venial reasons for which people killed each other. Money (sometimes a piddling amount of it too), sex, drugs, vengeance, ambition, anger.

She couldn't have borne it if her mom had been killed for some trivial thing, an accident, a wrong place at the wrong time sort of thing.

But this, a contract killer. That meant a conspiracy, a cover-up, which meant someone with power, resources, someone who had a lot to lose.

Three other people killed around the same time as her mother by this same killer. A conspiracy that left four bodies was a serious one.

This was big. Huge.

And she realized it did relieve one of her lingering fears, that she would find her mom's killer only to watch him cut a deal for some measly few years in prison. A contract killer with at least 5 bodies to his account was not one who would be able to cut a deal. If—when—they found him, he would be going away for a long, long time, probably for life with no parole.

But in a sense, it was also worse because it meant that her mom's killing hadn't been personal at all. Had had nothing to do with Johanna Beckett as a person really.

Who could have wanted to hurt her mother when to the best of her knowledge, her mother had generally been well-liked, well-respected, well-loved?

Kate was too much of a cop not to know that the perennial lament of victims' families, that everyone loved the victim, was almost never true. Kate had been trained to know better but with all that, she'd still come up blank when it came to her mother's case. Sure, her mom had occasionally disagreed with some of her colleagues—inevitable that a group of lawyers would disagree; put three lawyers into a room and ask a question and you'd get at least four different answers, probably more—but the disagreements had never been serious or personal. Her mom had been kind, fair in her dealings with people. There had been no extramarital affairs or romantic entanglements or shady secrets that always set off red flags. As far as she could tell, she'd always believed that no one in her mom's life had any reason to harm her mother.

Kate had been right in that. She knew that she'd been too close to it to see her mom's case, her character, impartially. But Kate had stubbornly insisted, to herself if to no one else, that no one could have hated her mom that much. She was vindicated now. It hadn't been personal, hadn't been about her mother personally.

But that hurt too. A different kind of pain.

Her mother had been an inconvenience, collateral damage for someone who had a lot to lose and didn't care how many people were hurt along the way. Can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, as the saying went—her mother had been an egg.

Collateral damage. Killed by a professional contract killer who didn't even see her mother as a human being at all, just another job.

Kate felt a surge of anger, of bitterness, fueling her determination all over again.

The fire that had led her to become a cop, had carried her through all the endless days and nights poring over her mom's case.

The fire that had become a flood and threatened to drown her.

Drowning in her mother's murder as surely as her dad had been drowning in alcohol for all those years.

Oh god. _Dad._

Kate's thoughts broke off at the reminder of her dad.

She needed to call him, needed to tell him.

What would this news do to him? How much would it devastate him?

For a moment, she hesitated, vacillated.

She tried not to lie to her father but she also didn't tell him everything either.

Her eyes found the picture of her parents, her dad looking so much younger and happier, none of the added lines that had been scored onto his face by the ravages of grief and time.

She was afraid. Afraid that this new break in her mom's case would rip open her dad's wounds again, sending him back into the bottle. Afraid that she would drown in her mom's case again. Afraid that they wouldn't find anything else and her mother's killer would have killed again with impunity.

Her gaze wandered, fell on the small pot of African violets sitting on the windowsill.

She heard Castle's voice in her mind. _It's because you're afraid, isn't it? You're afraid that if you look into your mother's death that you'll go back down that rabbit hole and lose yourself again._

She'd hated him in that moment, her anger and her hurt and her sense of betrayal still raw inside her at his digging into her mom's case.

Now, she heard his words again and she acknowledged he was right.

She was afraid, yes, even terrified.

But she looked at the pot of violets he had sent her and at the signed copy of _Heat Wave_ , where he'd called her extraordinary for the entire world to see.

She wasn't the same anymore.

She was stronger than she had been.

And her dad was stronger than he had been. He'd stayed sober through five years of Christmases and other holidays, birthdays, and their wedding anniversary. Six anniversaries of That Day.

Her dad wouldn't be alone because she would be with him. And she wouldn't be alone because Castle would be with her.

Her decision made, Kate stood and retrieved her phone. It was early enough that her dad would still be at work and he often couldn't answer his cell phone while in his office. She called the direct line for her dad's office, even though she almost never used it. Now was not the time for a voicemail.

"Jim Beckett." Her dad's voice sounded crisp and professional.

"Hi, Dad. It's me."

"Katie?" Her dad's voice abruptly changed, becoming sharp with worry and concern, as she'd known it would when she called his office. "What's happened? What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Dad," she quickly reassured him. A marginal untruth but not a lie, she told herself. She was better, more herself again. "I just… can we meet? Something's… come up."

God, she hadn't even thought about what exactly she could tell her dad.

"What is it? Katie, your voice, you sound—are you really all right?"

Trust her dad to pick up on it so quickly. He knew her too well.

She forcibly schooled her voice. "I really am fine, Dad. It's not about me. It's…" she hesitated and then finally added, much softer, "It's about mom."

"Oh." She almost heard her dad swallow and then could picture the way he would straighten his shoulders, a habitual gesture. "Just tell me, Katie."

"It's about mom's case. Something… something's come up."

"What, Katie? What's happened?" her dad asked cautiously, apprehension and concern in his voice.

 _There is no doubt in my mind that Jack Coonan was killed by the same man who murdered your mother._

She flinched, again, at the words.

She couldn't say that, not in so many words, to her dad. She hesitated and then answered, slowly, carefully, "We think… there's evidence that the man who… killed mom has killed again. There's some new information. It looks like he's..." She bit back the words, a contract killer, and substituted the blander term, "a professional."

Even so, she heard her dad suck in a sharp breath and knew her dad understood the implications, at least mostly. He wasn't that naive and there was no concealing or softening the stark fact.

Her dad was silent for a long minute during which Kate tried to control her breathing, her own heart rate.

And then, in a voice that her dad tried with limited success to keep from trembling, "How are you doing, Katie-girl?"

"I'm… I've been better," she admitted softly.

There was another pause and then her dad answered, his tone becoming brisker in what Kate recognized as his attempt to get his emotions under control. "I need to finish up some things but I'll leave my office within 10 minutes. See you at the diner in an hour?"

She relaxed just the tiniest bit. Yes, talking to her dad would help. She needed her dad's understanding, his steadiness. "Sounds good. See you then."

"Drive carefully, Katie."

The familiar admonition made her lips twitch for the first time in what felt like weeks. "I will. See you soon, Dad."

"Bye, Katie."

She ended the call and then set about repairing and concealing the evidence of the emotional upheaval and the tears as much as possible so her dad wouldn't worry. She changed quickly into more comfortable clothes, shrugging into her coat, and then was leaving her apartment in a matter of minutes.

It was raining outside, which seemed almost too appropriate for her gloomy mood, as if the world were crying with her. (Castle's voice that had, rather irritatingly, taken up residence in her head spoke up to comment on her adoption of the pathetic fallacy, but she ignored it.)

She was, for once in her life, though, rather thankful for the vagaries of Manhattan traffic, especially as exacerbated by the rain, as it necessitated using all her concentration just to navigate through it, effectively distracting her.

She reached the diner in good time and then simply sat there for a moment, trying to mentally steel herself for this talk.

The sound of her phone beeping startled her and she checked it. A text message from Lanie.

She had missed another text from Castle earlier, she saw. It was, uncharacteristically, brief, almost terse. _Whatever you need._

For the first time since she'd heard Dr. Murray's words, she felt a little tendril of warmth unfurling inside her. And for the moment, she didn't have the energy to fight it.

She didn't respond—what could she possibly say?—and checked the message from Lanie, instead.

 _You okay, honey? Call if you want to talk._

Kate sighed a little. She wasn't angry at Lanie anymore, wasn't sure she'd ever really been angry at Lanie, had more been lashing out in her emotional upset.

She texted Lanie a quick response. _I'm fine. Meeting with my dad now._

She looked out towards the diner where she and her dad habitually met. She expected her dad would already be waiting for her.

But she still hesitated.

Oh god, could she really do this?

She wasn't normally given to either dithering or cowardice—at least, she didn't think she was—but her mom's case was different.

Her mom's death had broken her and her mom's case had acted like a black hole, sucking her into a vortex, consuming her entire life, until she'd been in danger of risking not only her job, but her physical and mental health. If it hadn't been for Captain Montgomery intervening when he'd noticed her increasing gauntness—and the stupid, careless mistakes she'd started making in her paperwork due to sleep deprivation—Kate wasn't sure to this day where she would have ended up.

A distant memory returned to her, of her much younger self curled up in bed, trying not to cower during one of those intense thunderstorms that occasionally battered Manhattan in the summertime. And her mom, saying encouragingly, _Don't be scared, Katie-bug_ , and the young Katie's defiant response, _I'm not scared of anything_.

It had been a lie then, just as it was a lie now.

She blinked back the tears that welled up in her eyes, lifting a hand to swipe away the tears on her cheeks, and tipped her head back against the headrest of her seat to keep any more tears from escaping.

God, how could she do this again, rip open all the old wounds and try to look into her mom's case? She could feel the tug of incipient obsession, the insidious voice whispering that she had to solve her mom's case or die trying, that she couldn't call herself a real cop unless she solved her mom's case…

Another voice spoke up, drowning out the other. His voice. _It's different this time. We have good leads. We have strong leads. And you won't have to do it alone. We can do it together._

She blinked until the tears cleared and looked at her keyring, fingering the small metal tag. It was too dark to be able to read it but it didn't matter. _Remarkable._ The word might as well have been engraved onto her mind, not just the tag.

She pressed her lips together, feeling a spark of her usual determination flicker to life. And she got out of her car, hurrying through the rain into the diner where her dad was waiting.

She tried not to flinch a little at the sight of him, noting his pallor, the deeper lines around his mouth that always appeared in the few times when she'd mentioned her mom's case.

Her dad raised a hand in greeting and then stood up to hug her. "Katie."

She tried for a faint, reassuring smile. "Hey Dad." She briefly let her eyes close as she returned her dad's hug, feeling the depth of his emotion in the strength of his embrace. "Hi."

They sat down, her dad ordering a coffee and a plate of biscuits, while Kate demurred. She didn't want to risk eating or drinking anything now, her stomach still feeling a little off after her bout over the toilet earlier.

By silent agreement, they waited until after her dad's coffee arrived before talking, her dad making an unnecessary show out of stirring his coffee and blowing on it before taking a sip. (And Kate felt a little pang at the memory of how her mom had teased her dad for taking his coffee black.)

Her dad finally looked up and asked quietly, "So, what have you found?"

How to answer that? She hesitated, thought, but finally had to admit, "I don't know yet." A contract killer, a conspiracy. This connection to Johnny Vong, whatever it meant. Nothing solid, as yet, just… new threads to follow. New leads, which they hadn't had. And as Kate knew from experience, to solve a case, you just had to keep collecting pieces of the puzzle until you got enough pieces to try to fit them together into a cohesive whole.

She didn't know if she could do that with her mom's case. Didn't know if she was strong enough; didn't know if she could be controlled enough.

"But enough to scare you."

Of course her dad would get straight to the heart of things. And he was the only person who dared to call her out on getting scared.

Except, no, that wasn't true anymore. Castle had too.

She gave a small, rueful twist of her lips. "Yeah." The difference was that her dad was the only person to whom she'd admit to being afraid.

Her dad sighed a little. "I didn't sleep well that whole first year after you got out of the academy," he told her quietly. He'd never said as much before, although Kate knew very well how much her dad worried about her because of her work. "I'd hear sirens in the night and imagine you off in the darkness someplace. I had nightmares where it swallowed you whole."

 _And then he drank to keep off the nightmares._ The thought darted into her mind and Kate inwardly flinched. No, no, no, she wasn't going to start thinking like that. It wasn't her fault that her dad had become an alcoholic and she wasn't going to start blaming her dad for it either. Not now, not again. She'd forgiven her dad for those years, had learned to let go of the anger and the hurt and the disappointment. She and her dad had moved past all that years ago, had painstakingly built their relationship up again from the ruins.

She studied her dad's hands on the table and then looked up at him, meeting his eyes, and somehow that helped to ground her a little. Just the very fact that they were having this conversation was proof of that. Even four years ago, they couldn't have talked like this, not about her mom's case.

"Dad, I don't want to lose this one," she faltered, a little uncertainly, not sure how to express what she meant. She didn't want to fail, again, at solving her mom's case, didn't want to get sucked down the rabbit hole again, didn't want to look into this for fear that she'd fail or miss something because of how viscerally her mom's case affected her.

"Your mother always said that life never delivers anything that we can't handle. I mean, she lived by that, you know. Called it 'Johanna's Immutable Law of the Universe.'"

Kate managed a faint but real smile, a little tremulous, but real nonetheless. Yes, she remembered that. It had been her mom's motto, her mantra for getting through hard times. So much so that whenever her mom had even started to say it, her dad and sometimes Kate too would chime in to finish the sentence, Kate usually in a teasing sing-song tone.

"And for years I thought she was wrong," her dad acknowledged, his tone changing slightly. "Because I couldn't handle losing her."

She inwardly flinched at the stark admission, the truth. Her heart twisted all over again at the memory of those early, bad years, the acknowledgement of how devastated her dad had been. No, she couldn't blame her dad for those years drowning his sorrows. She had not been any better, only her addiction had been to murder, her mom's case, more socially acceptable and less obvious, but no less destructive.

"Now I can almost hear her whisper, 'I told you so.'"

Kate had to smile at that. "Four of Mom's favorite words." They had been. She could hear exactly how her mom's voice would have sounded, the affection and the amusement and the smugness in it, the echo of all the times her mom had said just that lingering in her memory.

Her dad's faint smile faded as he met her eyes again. "Look, she was a devout believer in the truth and if she were here right now, she'd tell you the truth can never hurt you. You know, this may be your mother's way of reaching out to you, Katie, and reminding you that the truth is still your weapon to wield. Not theirs."

Kate's lips twitched a little, another memory returning to her. She heard her mom's voice in her head telling her, _it's always better to know the truth, Katie. The truth might be hard, might hurt at first, but in the end, as the saying goes, the truth will set you free._

"The truth will set you free," she murmured, repeating her mom's words from so long ago.

Her dad managed a pale ghost of a smile. "See, you sound just like your mom already." He sobered and sighed and then reached across the table to squeeze her hand for a moment. "Look, Katie, I know you and I know you've been waiting for something like this, some new information in your mom's case for years now."

She jerked her head in automatic, instinctive denial. "No, Dad, I put it away, I stopped…"

She had. Hadn't she?

Her dad gave her one of his old, knowing looks. "Katie," was all he said.

She slumped a little. No, he was right. She had put her mom's case away to the extent of not looking into it but deep inside her, in some unacknowledged corner of her mind, the thought had lingered, the belief that someday, somehow, she would go back to it. And maybe then, with fresh eyes, she would see something new, the elusive thread to tie things together and allow her to solve her mom's case.

She remembered what Captain Montgomery had said earlier, _I figured sooner or later, when you were ready, you'd want to take another run at it._ (How had the Captain known?)

The tiny, festering thought that she didn't acknowledge, never looked at in the light of day—but it had partly been that which had made her anger at Castle last summer stronger, she realized now. Because at his words, his prying into that painful part of her past, she'd felt the threat, the insidious whisper of that unacknowledged corner of her mind. And she'd lashed out, bit Castle's head off, as Lanie had put it today.

Until he'd apologized, remorse and sincerity written all over his face, the stance of his body. It was, she suddenly thought, the first true glimpse of the real Rick Castle she'd gotten to see, the one behind his jackass persona and his mask of arrogance and bravado.

The disarming side of him that made it so hard to stay really mad at him.

Her dad took another sip of his coffee and idly picked at a biscuit. "What does Rick have to say about this?"

Kate had to fight not to startle. God, had her dad read her mind to know she'd been thinking about Castle? She mentally shook herself. No, her dad was only asking. A natural enough question, especially as her dad had taken to asking about Castle and Alexis and Martha on a regular basis since Thanksgiving. "I don't know," she answered. "I haven't talked to him about it."

Had avoided talking to him about it. His voice calling after her returned to her mind. He'd called her Kate. The aural memory of it sent a tiny little thread of _something_ darting through her. Had he ever called her Kate before?

And why did her first name sound so… different… coming from him, affect her so oddly?

It was just her name. Lanie called her Kate occasionally; the Captain had called her Kate before, at rare moments; and even Esposito had called her Kate once before that she remembered. The first time she'd told him about her mom. It had been her mom's birthday a few months after she and Espo had first started working together and Espo had found her in a bar, tossing back a whiskey. And Espo, being Espo, hadn't asked, hadn't said anything at all aside from ordering a drink, and had sat there with her at the bar in companionable silence for more than an hour, Kate remembered, until finally, after enough alcohol in her system to loosen her stubborn tongue, Kate had abruptly blurted out her mom's story, just the bare bones of it, not that it was her mom's birthday or anything else. Then she'd stood up to flee. And Espo had stopped her with a single word, her first name. And when she'd turned to stare at him, he'd only said, very simply, "I'm sorry."

And then Kate had run. She and Espo had never spoken of it again. But if Kate had to pinpoint a moment, she thought that was the one where she and Esposito had become friends, not just colleagues at work and partners.

It was just her name—she suddenly, inconsequentially remembered Kyra asking, "It's Kate, right?"—but somehow coming from Castle, it sounded… different. More personal.

"Don't you think you should, Katie?" her dad asked, pulling Kate out of her thoughts.

"I don't know," she said again. She didn't. He had already intruded once, ripping open the healed scars from her own drowning in her mom's case. But he wouldn't do that again, she thought. She thought about the flowers he'd sent her on That Day, thought about the text message he'd just sent her. Unobtrusive, thoughtful, cautious. No, he wouldn't do that again.

Her dad shifted and straightened up. "Look, Katie, I can't tell you what to do but I wish you would talk to Rick about this, let him help you." He paused and made a rueful sort of face. "I know I'd feel better knowing that he's by your side."

"Dad, Castle—he… he's not a cop, Dad," she finally settled for saying, lamely. She didn't even know why she said it. He wasn't a cop—but he was helpful on their cases and anyway, she knew that wasn't her dad's point.

"He's not a cop," her dad agreed but then went on, "but he is your friend."

Yes, he was her friend. He was… possibly, probably, the closest friend she had right now, except for Lanie. Huh. When had that happened? When had he switched spots like that in her mind, supplanting even the boys in her hierarchy of friendship?

"He cares about you, Katie," her dad said, again, "and if I'm any judge of character, he's a good man."

Kate's lips twitched into a faint smile in spite of herself. "He is," she confirmed, very quietly. Because she couldn't deny it and wouldn't deny it to her dad.

"He cares about you and you care about him."

"No, I…" Kate started automatically and then stopped. She tried not to outright lie to her dad. And she did care—she didn't really want to—she was trying to stop—she still cared. Oh, damn.

Her dad gave her a look. "Don't give me that, Katie. I know you, remember?"

Kate shut her mouth, forcing herself to meet her dad's eyes steadily, even though she could feel the blush heating her cheeks. Averting her eyes would reveal too much.

"Castle and I… it's complicated," she finally admitted. Inane thing to say.

Her dad smiled faintly. "I know that feeling."

She managed a small, answering smile. Yes, she knew how her parents had worked together, been friends first.

Not that she and Castle were like that, going to end up like that. They weren't. Absolutely not.

"Look, Katie, I'm not telling you what to do with your personal life; that's always up to you. I just…" He hesitated, sighed, and then met her eyes. "I know how hard this is for you, what your mom's case does to you, and while no one knows better than I do how strong you are, I worry, Katie-girl," he finished simply.

"Dad…"

"I'm just saying… don't try to do this alone, Katie. Even the strongest of us need friends, people who have our back and can hold us up when we falter." He paused and then added, quietly, "Just like you've held me up."

She swallowed back the lump of emotion, blinking back the prickling tears. "Oh, Dad…" was all she could manage in a shaky whisper.

It wasn't the first time her dad had credited her with saving him—and in her better, stronger moments, Kate could accept the supporting role she'd played and even acknowledge its importance. But she also didn't think it was all on her. She knew that now. Ultimately, it had been her dad's choice, her dad's decision, to stop drinking and to stay sober. Just as all her pleas to him had been ineffectual for the years he was drowning, she didn't think her support alone had saved him in the years since.

But perhaps, her support had made it possible for him to be strong enough to quit.

Someone to hold her up when she faltered.

She hadn't had someone like that in a long, long time. Not really. Not since… her mom had died. Even when she'd been with Will, she'd stuck to her usual habit of insisting she was fine, the strong, capable cop, able to hold her own with him, the tough fed. At work, she knew Esposito and Ryan always had her back; they were her partners and it was part of the code, the brotherhood of cops, but, well, they were colleagues and, in a sense, her subordinates and she couldn't allow herself to look weak in front of them. Outside of work, well, she had Lanie and, of course, her dad. But she didn't let herself lean on her dad too much; she still couldn't quite do that. And where her mom's case was concerned, her dad was just as vulnerable, if not more so, than she was.

What would it be like, to have someone to really lean on?

Her dad reached out to pat her hand where it rested on the table. "You can trust Rick, I think, Katie. Let him be your friend, let him help."

She tried but couldn't quite manage a reassuring smile. "I'll try, Dad," she promised. It was as much as she could do.

To let Castle—anyone—help her like that, let someone else in like that—she didn't know if she could.

Her dad's expression eased just a little. "That's all I ask, Katie-bug."

The old, childhood moniker elicited a faint smile, as usual.

The rather wistful mood was abruptly broken as their server returned to clear off the plate and her dad's mug and to drop off the check.

Her dad dropped a couple bills onto the table and Kate couldn't help but notice how tired her dad looked. And felt a pang of self-reproach. How could she ask her dad to reassure her when she knew all too well the toll that any mention of her mom's case took on him?

"Will you be okay, Dad?" Kate asked, with the faintest emphasis. She couldn't ask outright if her dad felt like he might relapse and she didn't—she really didn't—expect it to happen but she couldn't quite rid herself of that fear either. She'd been too scarred by all the times her dad had promised that it would be the last time only to fail again. It was something she had, slowly, come to terms with, that one was never "cured" completely of an addiction like alcoholism; recovery was an ongoing, chronic thing.

But her dad, of course, knew what she meant, what she was asking. He met her eyes squarely. "I'll be fine, Katie," he promised and then added, "I'll call Daniel." Daniel Suarez was his sponsor, whom Kate had met a number of times.

"Okay," she agreed. "I'll let you know… what happens," she said, not quite able to promise that she would let him know what they found out because she didn't know if they'd really find out anything more at this point.

"Right. Say hi to Rick for me whenever you see him."

"I will."

Her dad stood and pulled her into another hug, clutching her for a long moment. Kate closed her eyes, returning the hug, breathing in the familiar scent of her dad's aftershave, and for a few seconds, she could pretend she was a kid again, pretend that nothing had ever changed between her and her dad. Pretend that she'd never seen her dad fall, never seen him as anything other than the quietly strong, reliable father that she and her mom had both been able to turn to.

Just for a few seconds. And then she opened her eyes and stepped back and the fantasy was over, replaced by the reality of her dad as he was now, aged beyond his years by grief and alcohol and worry.

But he was her dad again, the one from her childhood memories, still. "I love you, Dad."

He managed a smile. "Love you too, Katie."

They left the diner arm in arm to find that the rain had stopped so it was mostly just misting now and she saw her dad into a cab before she turned to return to her car.

And found she'd decided, without consciously realizing it, where she would go now. To Castle.

 _~To be continued…~_

 _A/N 2: Apologies for the lack of Castle in this chapter but I think the next chapter should make up for it. And the next chapter, in case this site decides to be stupid again, will be posted next Thursday evening, as usual._


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: I know a lot of people have been looking forward to this scene and this conversation so I hope it lives up to expectations!

 **For All That You Are**

 _Chapter 9_

Of course, deciding to go see Castle was the easy part.

Kate felt a flutter of nervousness as she approached Castle's door and she tried to quell it by letting out a deep breath but it didn't quite work. She wasn't even sure why she was nervous, or if that was even the word for it, but she was.

She mentally steeled herself and then pressed the buzzer for the door.

The door swung open to reveal Castle, who couldn't quite hide the surprise when he saw it was her. "Hey." He hadn't been expecting her. Of course he hadn't; it wasn't as if she made a habit of dropping by the loft. The last time she'd been here had been Thanksgiving. And she'd been invited for that. Today, she hadn't sent word to Castle that she was coming, had not contacted him at all since she'd fled the precinct.

"Hey," she answered, trying to sound normal.

"Come in." He moved aside, ushering her in, and she felt the brief touch of his hand on her back, as if to guide her. (She tried not to notice that she swore she could feel the warmth of his touch even through the layers of her clothes, as if his touch, even as fleeting as it was, set every nerve ending to tingling.) Just for a second before it dropped but somehow, oddly, she felt some of her tension easing, appreciating it for the gesture of unquestioning welcome that it was. She was intruding into his home, unannounced and uninvited, but somehow, in all her nervousness, it had never occurred to her for a moment to question if she'd be welcome, if he'd have time for her. (When did he ever not have time— _make_ time—for her?)

And that meant something.

"Thank you," she said quietly, simply.

And then she was faced with Martha, whose expression was filled with so much sympathy that Kate knew that Castle had (obviously) told his mother and Alexis at least the bare bones of what had happened. Of course he had.

She found herself being pulled into Martha's scented embrace and for just a moment, let her eyes close. Oh, damn. It wasn't just Castle; it was his entire family that was so dangerous with their open-heartedness, their easy affection. She wasn't much of a person for hugging; her dad was the only person who hugged her on a regular basis but Martha—Martha hugged her so easily, as if she'd known Kate for years. And even Kate, with her built-in emotional shield and defenses shored up over a decade of being alone, wasn't proof against Martha's—the entire Castle family's—unhidden, spontaneous warmth. Kate felt some of the inner chill that still lingered inside her from this afternoon thaw and dissipate.

"Hang in there, kiddo."

Kate felt herself smiling sincerely. She wasn't normally one for endearments, especially not one as childish as 'kiddo'—but from Martha, she found she liked it. It was so… natural and it was a reminder that Martha was a mom too. "Thank you, Martha."

And then it was Alexis's turn, as the girl almost catapulted into Kate's arms, surprising Kate a little with the force of her embrace. Oh. Oh, wow, Alexis was _worried_ , worried about _her_. (What was it with this entire family and their willingness to care so openly, welcome her into their hearts so freely? She and her dad were both more reticent; this Castle way of being so openly affectionate was foreign to her—but oh god, she liked it. Liked it too much.)

"Are you okay, Kate?" Alexis asked, her blue eyes anxious.

Kate glanced quickly at Castle and then back at Alexis, managing a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, Alexis, really."

Castle shot her an assessing, concerned glance before turning to Alexis, pasting on a smile. "See, sweetie, I told you she'd be fine. Beckett's a tough cop, remember?"

The words, the tone, were preternaturally bright but Kate knew that he was putting on a show for Alexis's sake. As he would.

But she also knew that in another sense, he meant them. He thought she was extraordinary. He had such faith in her.

Something warm coiled inside her chest, settling around her heart.

But she kept her eyes on Alexis. "You don't have to worry about me, Alexis, honestly."

Alexis nodded, her eyes clearing a little. "Okay. You're sure, Kate?"

Kate's smile was unforced. Oh, this girl. "I'm sure." Kate would wonder where the girl got her sense of compassion from, unusual in a teenager, but she didn't have to wonder. Kate knew. Alexis got it from Castle, just as much as she got her blue eyes from him. He was raising a good kid, Kate thought, again, and the side of him she saw around Alexis might be the one she… liked the most.

Martha reached out and wrapped a hand around Alexis's arm, gently tugging her away. "Come on now, darling. Leave your father and Katherine to talk." She glanced back at Kate with another warm smile. "Leftovers in the fridge; upstairs if you need us."

Alexis glanced back, looking torn, as she followed her grandmother and Kate lifted a hand and smiled a reassurance, encouragement, at the girl as she left.

And then there were two.

Kate turned back to Castle, who, now that the confident façade he'd assumed for Alexis's sake was gone, looked anxious, uncertain. Unlike the man she usually saw in the precinct, so cocky, so given to bravado and wisecracks.

She met his eyes, so blue and so soft with concern and, yes, caring, and tried to think of what to say.

But he spoke before she thought of anything. "I will do anything that you need, including nothing, if that's what you want."

It was an extravagant promise. But she knew that he meant it. He would really do nothing if she asked him to. Even though, knowing him the way she did, she suspected that doing nothing would be a torment.

She lifted her chin and met his eyes directly. "What I want is to find my mother's killer."

His eyes brightened, a small smile lifting the corners of his lips, and his shoulders straightened a little—drawing her attention, in spite of herself, to the way his shoulders and his chest filled out his shirt. And oh, he looked so pleased and somehow… proud. She suddenly remembered the way he'd introduced her to Susan, the waitress at Remy's, as the best cop in the city. He knew what her mom's case had done—still did—to her and she knew he could guess at how much it had taken for her to do this, come here and tell him she wanted to look into her mom's case again. He believed in her so much, she thought again. She couldn't think of anyone who had ever had such unstinting faith in her except for her parents.

But he did—and she thought, maybe, just maybe, she could do this after all.

"Then we need to break Johnny Vong."

Her lips curved just a little, a flicker of determination coming to life, rising to the challenge, as she always did. "So let's break him."

He returned her smile, his eyes sparking with the intrigue, the excitement, that was so characteristic of him. He liked a challenge too, just as much as she did. "Vong's still in holding, right?" he asked rhetorically.

"Right," she confirmed needlessly. "He's supposed to be transferred tomorrow."

He nodded. "Well, he's scared of his handlers, whoever's behind the heroin ring, so what if instead of transferring him, we make as if to release him instead…"

"They'd think he's cooperated, made a deal with us," she answered, the germ of an idea percolating in her mind.

He grinned, his entire expression lighting up the way it did when they were onto something. "Exactly. So we release him on some technicality…"

"Like forgetting to read him his _Miranda_ rights," she supplied. And knew what they were going to do. She'd read Vong his rights—of course—but he'd waived them orally. There was no paper record. Which meant…

"Now that you mention it, you did forget that." He gave her a look of mock scolding. "Tsk tsk, Beckett, such a rookie mistake to make. Whatever were you thinking?"

Yeah, he'd caught on. She'd known he would—and he would have her back, support her in swearing up and down, if necessary, that she had, in fact, forgotten to read Vong his rights.

She smiled, feeling a spurt of triumph and that indescribable sense of connection that she always felt when they were both on the same page, when their minds were in sync. A sort of connection she'd never felt before with anyone. "I don't know, maybe I was thinking about Johnny Vong's boat," she quipped.

He laughed out loud and she grinned at him. Amazingly. Since even an hour ago, it had felt like the weight of the world was on her shoulders.

Now, with him, because of him, she felt better, herself again.

And they had a concrete plan, which helped too.

He smiled and then blinked, abruptly seeming to realize that they were still just standing in the entryway of the loft and made a face, hitting his forehead with the heel of his palm. "Oh, geez, sorry, Beckett. I swear I usually have better manners than this. Come in. Can I take your coat, get you anything?" he asked, gesturing a little awkwardly.

And oddly, Kate felt herself softening, her chest warming, at his very awkwardness, how he was abruptly ill at ease and yet so tentatively eager to please. She was so used to the brash man-about-town air he usually adopted—and of course he was generally socially adept, charming—but right now, with her, he wasn't.

He looked cautious, uncertain of his place.

Because of her, because he knew what her mom's case did to her and he didn't want to overstep, again.

It was endearing. And for once, she didn't—couldn't—deny it.

And even though she hadn't really planned to stay, she found herself shrugging out of her coat, taking off her gloves, leaving both draped over the back of the couch as she followed him towards the kitchen.

He headed behind the island, pausing near the fridge. "Uh, have you eaten? Like Mother said, we have leftovers."

"I'm not really hungry right now."

"Something to drink, then? Coffee? Something stronger? Beer, wine, Scotch? Or we have, uh, soda or milk or juice or tea or hot chocolate?"

She didn't really want anything but he was so transparently anxious to get her something, anything, that she relented. "Some tea would be nice."

"Tea, coming right up." He set some water to boil and then brought out two mugs. "What kind? We have Earl Grey, English breakfast, this oolong tea, green tea, peppermint, this weird tea my mother got from one of those organic, specialty stores that's apparently supposed to do miraculous things for your skin but I have no idea what's in it and it looks gross when it's steeping and it kinda smells funny…"

She laughed softly at his rush of words, so very Castle-like. "Wow, Castle, you make it sound so appetizing but I think I'll pass on Martha's tea and go with the peppermint instead."

He smiled, relaxing a little. "Peppermint, it is."

He busied himself making the tea as the water boiled and he set the tea to steep.

"My dad says hi, by the way."

His hands stilled as he looked up at her. "You talked to your dad? How is he?"

Oh. Her heart warmed all over again because he was concerned about her dad too. She could see it in his expression, hear it in his tone.

"He's okay, I think," she answered, not quite as confidently as she'd have liked. "It's just… my mom's case… it's hard for him," she admitted quietly. Easier to admit that it was hard on her dad than to say the same about herself.

"I can imagine."

"I worry about him, worry that if it gets bad, he'll…" she trailed off and then finished lamely, "well, you know."

He did know. She knew he remembered what she'd said about her dad's struggles. And it occurred to her what a comfort there was in that, in knowing that Castle knew and understood without her having to say, out loud, in so many words, that she worried about her dad relapsing, starting to drink again. She tried never to say those words outright. (And she realized, again, just how thoughtful he had been at Thanksgiving, arranging for all the array of drinks offered to be non-alcoholic. Making things easier as it spared her from having to make the awkward admission and even more awkward—and painful—action of removing any alcohol. As impulsive as he could be, when it mattered, for the important things, he was considerate.)

She was belatedly surprised at herself for confiding as much to Castle. She so rarely spoke of her dad's struggles with anyone but even when she did, she always tried to act as if her dad were completely cured, as if it was a thing of the past. She generally tried to pretend, even to herself at least half the time, that alcoholism was something like the chicken pox, that once you had it and were cured of it, you were immune forever. She couldn't remember—had she ever admitted to anyone else how much she still worried about her dad? She didn't think she had—until now, to Castle.

He nodded but didn't say anything for a moment and then, quietly, "I think your dad's pretty strong. It… it takes a lot to overcome what he did."

"I know but still…"

He handed her the mug of tea, their fingers brushing and she felt the familiar (errant) tingle of heat go through her fingers.

The corners of his lips tilted upwards in a ghost of a smile. "If he's anything at all like you, he'll manage."

He was trying, she knew, to make her smile and she gave him a small one, the best she could manufacture at the moment.

But his expression eased and she thought it had been enough.

A brief moment of silence fell as they both sipped their tea. The minty scent of it was pleasant, relaxing, and the warmth was just what she needed, she found.

She felt the lingering knot of tension inside her unwind and something like peace settled over her. Amazingly.

And she found more words coming to her lips, wondering when it had become so much easier to talk to him. But then again, she suspected she knew. It was the softness and the warmth in his eyes, his seriousness right now, and the belief that somehow, he understood.

He really was her friend, a good friend, a very good friend.

She trusted him.

She thought about her dad's words. Her dad, as usual, had been right. Castle cared about her—he wasn't even trying to hide it anymore, if he ever had—and it did help to talk to him. And she… cared about him too. And for the first time, she admitted that to herself without the flare of panic or the instinctive rush to deny or somehow mitigate the admission.

"My dad told me that, well, my mom wouldn't have wanted me to give up or hide from finding out the truth of what happened to her."

"'You shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free,'" he quoted in a murmur.

"My mom used to say that too."

He quirked a faint smile. "Clearly your mom was brilliant."

Her mom really would have liked him, she thought, liked the way he cared about people, the way he tried (and succeeded) to bring levity into her life. And she found herself blurting out something she'd never imagined she'd ever tell him except at that moment, it seemed right. "She liked your books, you know."

He blinked, surprise blanking his features for a moment. "Your mom? Really?"

"Yes, really," she confirmed quietly. She wouldn't tell him just how much, wouldn't tell him the praise her mom had given his books, or that her mom had even planned to go to a book signing of his once. Maybe someday, she would tell him…

"Thank you for telling me."

She managed a shrug with a casualness she didn't feel. "It seemed like the right time."

Somewhat to her surprise, he didn't comment or respond in words at all and another comfortable silence fell.

He idly stirred his tea before drinking it and shot her careful, watchful glances when he thought she wouldn't notice—but she found she didn't mind. There was too much concern in his expression, unmixed with pity so it didn't raise her hackles. (Or maybe it was simply that with Castle, she knew very well that he didn't think her an object of pity, didn't think she was weak in any way.)

But into the silence, her thoughts given free rein, doubts started to creep in, voices of second-guessing, her insecurities coming to life.

They had a plan to get to Johnny Vong but what if it didn't work? What if Johnny Vong only led them to middle men while the faceless man behind the heroin ring who had actually hired the contract killer stayed anonymous? Nothing indicated that Johnny Vong was a hardened criminal likely to be trusted by the rest of the conspirators; he was just a patsy, the fall guy, the equivalent of a used car salesman, whose phony accent and flexible sense of morality had put him on the radar of whoever was behind the ring.

What if this turned into just another broken thread, a road to nowhere?

This wasn't a direct path to the man who'd actually killed her mother; this heroin ring was an unrelated conspiracy to that which had led to her mother's death. The only common theme was the killer. But what if they couldn't find this killer?

They'd be left nearly where they had been before, just another tantalizing clue that led nowhere, another dead end.

And her mother's killer would have gotten away with murder. Again.

Oh god. How could she live with that knowledge, deal with that again?

Coming to terms with her mother's killer going unknown, unpunished—or trying to—had gutted her and she didn't know if she could go through that again.

"We won't give up, you know," Castle abruptly spoke up, breaking the silence. "No matter what happens with Vong tomorrow, that won't be the end of it."

God, how had he guessed what was going through her mind? How did he read her so well? She wasn't normally an open book; training had given her a formidable poker face but maybe it was that she was too tired or maybe he just knew her too well but somehow, her poker face didn't seem very effective where he was concerned.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking very loudly," he responded mildly. "If we run into a wall tomorrow, we'll get a ladder and climb over it or dig a tunnel or go around it. We won't give up. You know the boys will be with you every step of the way." He paused and then added, with a faint quirk of his lips, "As a wise man once said, 'if you can't run, you walk, and if you can't walk, you crawl, and if you can't do that, you find someone to carry you.'"

She snorted a little, smiling in spite of herself. "A fictional character on a cancelled sci-fi show is your idea of a wise man?"

He pointed his tea spoon at her in mock threat. "First of all, do not belittle _Firefly_. It was a brilliant show, whose merit was in no way reflected by its abrupt cancellation. Although," he digressed, "I might forgive you just for being able to identify the quote so quickly." He went on, adopting an exaggeratedly didactic tone, "Secondly, just because he's fictional doesn't mean he's any less wise; some of the great truths have been put into words by writers of fiction like, say, Shakespeare."

"Comparing _Firefly_ to the works of Shakespeare is taking it way too far."

"I'm just saying, fictional is not the same thing as being shallow or unwise."

"On that, I'll agree with you," she conceded.

He threw up his arms in a gesture of triumph. "Ha, victory is mine!"

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help but smile. Silly man. Silly, kind man, who had distracted her from her worries and made her smile, brightened up her mood, when she needed it. He had done it again.

He flashed a grin at her and then sobered. "Anyway, I meant it, you know. Whatever happens with Johnny Vong, we'll keep looking. The more information we find, the sooner we can put the pieces together, solve the case."

She managed to quirk her eyebrows at him. "You're telling me how to do my job now? I know how this works, homicide detective, remember?"

He smiled. "See, there you go. In a contest between the best of the NYPD and any criminal organization, I'd put my money on NYPD's best any day." He paused and then deadpanned, "And I'm speaking, of course, about Esposito and Ryan."

She threw a napkin at his head. "Does that mean your next book will be about Roach, rather than Nikki?"

He pretended to think about it. "The idea has some merit to it. Think of the titles. Roach to the Rescue. Renegade Roach. Deadly Roach."

She made a face even as she felt a bubble of laughter rising inside her. "That sounds like a horror movie about giant, killer cockroaches."

He shrugged elaborately. "We live in New York City; the premise doesn't sound that far-fetched to me."

"Your next career move, writing B-list horror movies."

"Don't mock. I'll do what I must to put Alexis through college," he declared with an exaggerated air of martyrdom.

"Such a sacrifice," she pretended to commiserate, even as she felt warmth settling in her chest. Oh, this man. How did he do it, distract her and make her laugh so effectively? And how could she not care about this man, who went out of his way to make her smile on this day that he knew had been a hard one?

She met his eyes, warm and bright with amusement, and found herself returning his smile. And it occurred to her that the gift of smiles and laughter wasn't important only in itself or as a distraction but because it also made her stronger.

Somehow, in some way, he made her stronger.

Someone to hold her up when she faltered, as her dad had put it.

Somehow, Castle had become that person. In making her smile and laugh, he made her stronger. Maybe it was that just being distracted from her doubts and fears was enough to revive her courage or maybe it was the simple act of smiling and laughing that had her feeling more like her usual self, more confident, more capable, because she couldn't truly be afraid if she were smiling, or some combination of the two. Something like the old expression, whistling past a graveyard. Or how had the classic musical, _The King and I_ , phrased it? _I whistle a happy tune and ev'ry single time the happiness in the tune convinces me that I'm not afraid. Make believe you're brave and the trick will take you far…_

She didn't really understand it but it didn't matter either. What mattered was the truth of it, that somehow, Castle's ability to make her smile not only brightened up her mood but also infused her with additional courage.

And maybe it also had to do with his unflagging confidence in her, the way he thought she was extraordinary.

Oh god. Her heart was suddenly, belatedly, fluttering wildly in her chest because she didn't _do_ this, didn't let herself rely on anyone else, didn't let people in… She didn't know how to deal with the emotions, with the vulnerability of letting anyone see her when she was weak.

And yet… Here she was.

For one crazy moment of irrational panic, she thought she'd never take her dad's advice again—he'd gotten her into this—but even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true, her own better sense kicking in.

 _Get a grip, Kate._

"It'll be okay, Beckett," he said, pulling her from her thoughts and she blinked at him, wondering with another flare of panic that he really might have read her mind. But then he went on, "whatever happens tomorrow, you'll get through this, you know. And we—Esposito, Ryan, Lanie, me—we're here for you, whatever you need."

She relaxed slightly. He hadn't read her mind. Of course he hadn't. (She was coming unhinged.) He'd assumed she was worrying over what would happen with Johnny Vong again, still.

And what he'd just promised… She knew the boys had her back and Lanie was her best friend but it was him, it was his promising to be there for her that really got to her. He meant it, every word of it.

And the thought darted into her mind that she didn't have to be alone anymore.

Someone to hold her up when she faltered.

When had she started to trust him so much?

Except… it occurred to her that it was because of Alexis, or rather, seeing him with Alexis that had really done it. Because the man he was with Alexis, the man he was with Martha too, was trustworthy, reliable. Not the brash, impulsive jokester he so often was in the precinct but the one who fussed over Alexis, who fretted over his mother's hurt feelings, who tried so hard to keep Alexis from worrying—that man was one she could trust.

And Alexis trusted him.

Kate remembered very well that feeling of unshakable confidence in a parent, remembered too the repeated blows it had taken to weaken that confidence, and how much it had taken to rebuild some measure of confidence in her own dad. Her confidence in her dad had been repaired, mostly, but it wasn't the same, could never be the same as the youthful, innocent confidence she'd had in her dad when growing up.

Alexis's faith in her mom was pretty clearly gone (the absence of Meredith in Alexis's otherwise blithe prattle about her life was telling) but Alexis's faith in Castle was still absolute. And that said a lot.

Castle had a loyal heart—and he could be relied on to take care of the people he cared about.

Kyra had known it, Kate suddenly thought. The way Kyra had so easily, even naturally, turned to Castle for comfort when her confidence in Greg had been shaken by his story about Sophie—in spite of all the years that had passed since their relationship had ended, in spite of how much their relationship ending must have hurt Castle. (Kate could put two and two together and guess at the outlines of how it had happened, with the look on Castle's face, the way he'd referred to Kyra as 'the one that got away.')

15 years was a long time but when it came down to it, Kyra had still trusted Castle. And he'd been there for her, helped her, no questions asked.

Kate could—and she did—trust Castle.

Kate finished her tea and Castle promptly cleared the mug away, depositing it in the sink.

"Thanks for the tea."

"No problem." He hesitated and then offered, "Do you want anything else? You can stay, watch tv, or something."

"No, that's okay," she demurred, sliding off her chair. A glance at the clock in the kitchen showed her that it was after 9. "I'd better get going. Early start tomorrow."

"Right," he agreed automatically. "Big day if we're going to break Johnny Vong too."

Oh god. Her heart, her gut, clenched. If things went as planned, she could find her mom's killer tomorrow, or at least learn his name, learn something. Tomorrow, after 11 years, she could learn the truth or at the least, be getting close.

Oh god.

She was suddenly terrified all over again of what it meant to be looking into her mom's case again. It was too personal for her; she couldn't be patient, couldn't wait for the evidence to come in. Would run headfirst into it without pausing to look or think.

One of Captain Montgomery's precepts about working a case returned to her. _Walk, don't run. A good cop goes where the evidence leads, not the other way around._

A cop who was too impatient tended to cut corners, make assumptions, leap to unwarranted conclusions, went for the quick and easy close rather than the truth.

She tried to tamp down on her impatience, the burning need to know, but quelling 11 years of desperate wondering, obsessing, was not easy to do. But she had to do it.

He trailed after her to the front door of the loft as she headed out, gathering up her gloves and shrugging into her coat along the way.

"Say goodnight to Martha and Alexis for me."

He nodded. "Of course."

She hesitated at the door, feeling absurdly as if just leaving the loft would somehow precipitate the next day, as if the loft were a sort of cocoon, a haven where time stood still and worry was held at bay.

Or maybe, prosaically, it was simply that the loft was warm and welcoming and outside, the night was cold and damp and her own apartment would be dark and solitary.

She was being silly, she told herself bracingly.

She glanced at Castle, hovering by her side, his eyes so soft and so filled with concern. She could almost see the flood of words he was biting back, the worry, the reassurances, the invitations, the offers.

He cared about her. (Possibly more than she'd ever realized.)

And tonight—tonight, he'd been… what she needed.

"Castle?" she blurted out before she'd realized she was going to, before she even knew what she meant to say.

"Yeah?"

Her heart was suddenly clogging her throat because how could she possibly put into words all he'd done, how much it had meant. As always, for the things she felt the most, she couldn't find the words. So instead she settled for saying, lamely, "Thank you."

But seeing the way his eyes brightened, the soft, even affectionate, smile curving his lips, she thought, maybe it hadn't been so inadequate after all. (And she remembered the way he'd told her, _you always exceed my expectations._ )

"Always."

The simple word suddenly had a flock of butterflies appearing in her chest because he meant it. It was a promise.

 _I will do anything that you need…_

Someone to hold her up when she faltered.

The remembered image of Castle hugging Kyra flashed into her mind, accompanied by a pang of something like longing, and he was standing right next to her, tall and broad-shouldered and just… there for her…

And the (dangerous) thought darted into her mind—what would it be like to be hugged by Castle?

She wanted it. Wanted, just once, to feel the strength of his arms around her, protected. Safe.

She didn't usually think like this. She didn't need protection, could take care of herself. She normally hated feeling so weak, so needy.

But tonight, after the upheaval of the day, she was too emotionally wrung out, too raw, to fight it. To deny the tug of attraction (and more) she felt.

Just once, she told herself, she'd give in to the wish to be hugged by Castle. Just this once, she'd allow herself that comfort.

She couldn't say it out loud but she took a cautious step towards him, closing the distance between them, as she had just once before, until she was almost—almost—pressed up against him, until there might have been room for a dime to fit between their bodies but not more.

And as she'd hoped, expected, wanted, he took the hint.

He tensed a little in surprise but then his arms closed around her, wrapped her up in his solid warmth.

And she fit against him, her head momentarily, daringly, resting on his shoulder. She let her eyes close, breathing in the familiar (god, when it had it become so familiar?) scent of him.

He wouldn't, she knew, push too far, take advantage of this moment of vulnerability to push for more intimacy. Some men—a lot of men—would but not Castle. He wanted her—he hadn't exactly been subtle about that—but she knew he wouldn't take this hug as an invitation to let his hands wander. And not only because she knew he had a healthy respect for her ability to inflict bodily harm on him. He wasn't that sort of man; he would never demand more than what was freely offered.

And it was… as she'd imagined it would be. Or possibly better. Because she just… fit against him and his frame was so much bigger than hers, a fact made very obvious when she was resting against his broad chest, making her feel warm and sheltered and cared for.

He felt so… strong. He _was_ so strong. (She had eyes; the muscles of his chest and arms were hard to miss, even through his shirts, and no way could he have muscles like that and not be strong.) Strong enough to hold her, carry her.

No, no. The word broke through the moment of vulnerability. She didn't need carrying. She carried herself.

She stiffened her spine and lifted her head and his arms fell from around her, releasing her, and she took a small step back, conscious of the rush of cool air filling in the space between their bodies.

There was some surprise lingering in his eyes but mostly his eyes were lambent with compassion and hope and something that looked uncomfortably close to… tenderness?

Her heart was suddenly clattering around in her chest, her cheeks flushing red.

She looked away, flustered and self-conscious. "Night, Castle."

"Sleep well."

She doubted it but she didn't say so aloud, only escaped the loft with a last half-smile at Castle, aimed more at his ear than at his eyes (shying away from the terrifying depth of emotion she saw in them).

She welcomed the chill outside and the lingering dampness in the air to cool down her overly heated cheeks.

She was a cop—the calm, coolly capable Detective Beckett, street-smart and trained. She didn't get flustered over a simple hug. There was no reason—none—for a hug from Castle to affect her any differently.

It was just that it had been a hard day, she decided. A hard, heart-wrenching day.

The first real big break, of sorts, in her mom's case. After so many years, all her days and nights spent poring over her mom's case file, they had a break, a solid lead.

Not only through Johnny Vong, but also through the other murders, the ones committed around the same time as her mom by the same killer. The information Castle had found months ago, what little he'd managed to tell her before she'd cut him off and fled from him and then shut him out.

She was still afraid, terrified, of going down the rabbit hole again. She knew all too well what her mom's case did to her. Might still do to her.

His words returned to her, echoed in her mind, again. _We have good leads. We have strong leads. And you won't have to do it alone. We can do it together._

Together.

It wasn't a word she'd thought of in connection with her mom's death or her mom's case, not in… 11 years. Not since… her dad's assurance to her when they were at the beach after her mom's funeral, that they would get through it together. Her dad's promise that day—which had been broken all too quickly.

Since that time, when it came to her mom's case, when it came to just about everything, she'd been alone.

Royce had known about her mom's case and her driving determination to find her mom's killer, but he hadn't offered (nor had she asked) to help her with it. Will had known about her mom's case but she'd put it away by the time she'd met him and even if she hadn't, she knew herself too well to think she'd have turned to him.

She didn't do that, didn't ask for help.

Now—she might not have asked but she wasn't alone anymore.

The thought, the knowledge, settled in her chest, warmed her, carried her through the rest of the evening.

She didn't expect to be able to sleep—or if she did sleep, was terrified of nightmares like the ones she always had the night before That Day—but she prepared for bed as she usually did.

And when she slid into bed and closed her eyes, what came to her mind was not about her mom's death, but was instead the memory of the look in Castle's so blue eyes, the strength and comfort of his embrace, the fleeting moment of resting against the solid warmth of his chest.

 _I will do anything that you need…_

And she slept.

 _~To be continued…~_

A/N 2: I hope this satisfied. Thank you to all readers and reviewers, especially the guests whom I can't thank directly.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: An episode filler for "Sucker Punch." Another emotional chapter ahead.

 **For All That You Are**

 _Chapter 10_

Castle thought his heart might actually be breaking. Or being physically ripped apart.

He hovered, feeling awkward and ill at ease—and worse, useless—as he lingered in the hallway of the precinct just outside the door to the women's restroom.

Because that didn't look weird or creepy at all.

He was momentarily relieved that obviously everyone in the precinct knew what had just happened so no one would question what he was doing, lurking the way he was and where he was.

But then again, what did that matter, because really, the entire world could have been crowded around, pointing and staring, and he wouldn't have budged or cared much at all.

He heard another sound like a muffled sob over the sound of running water and at this point, he wasn't even sure if he was really hearing it or if it was the product of his overactive imagination because he knew that Beckett was crying inside there.

Just like she'd cried earlier, over Dick Coonan's body.

He inwardly flinched, at the thought, the memory.

She'd stayed on her knees on the floor beside Coonan's body for a long time, until people from the ME's office had arrived to take the body away. And then she'd finally stood, watching stoically, as Coonan's body was covered and taken away.

Her mother's killer.

The best chance she'd had of finding out who was behind her mother's murder.

It wasn't until Coonan's body had disappeared from sight behind the closed elevator doors that she'd moved again, hurrying straight towards the women's restroom.

And he'd followed. Because he didn't want to let her out of his sight, because he never wanted to be away from her, because he couldn't help it.

Because he loved her.

He'd heard her give one hiccuping sob before the door had closed behind her and that had been enough.

His heart hurt with an almost physical pain until he felt as if his ribs had been cracked.

Being shot by Coonan could not possibly have hurt worse than this, he thought wildly.

And knew that he meant it. To help Beckett catch her mom's killer once and for all, to give her that closure, he would risk his life willingly. Not gladly—he would never willingly leave Alexis alone—but for the first time in his life, or more accurately, in Alexis's life, there was someone he loved as much as he loved Alexis, for whom he would make such sacrifices.

Beckett was crying and the worst of it was that there was nothing he could do.

He couldn't barge into the women's restroom and hold her, couldn't take away her hurt, couldn't really comfort her in any way.

He could only stand here in the hallway and listen to the (faint, possibly imagined) sound of her sobbing.

Except that wasn't the worst of it. No, the worst part was that it was his fault.

He flinched, again, but he couldn't deny the truth of it echoing in his mind.

If it hadn't been for him… He was the one who had made the plea deal possible by volunteering his money; he was the conveniently available civilian hostage Coonan had taken.

He was the one who had poked into Beckett's mom's case and started all this in the first place. If he hadn't found out what he had, if he hadn't pulled in Clark Murray, if he hadn't shared what Dr. Murray had found with Lanie so Lanie had noticed the wound similarity…

If if if…

But he had done all that.

And now there was nothing he could do, short of turning back time and somehow avoiding being taken hostage, if he'd caught on to Coonan earlier, if he'd been more alert. Or going back further, if he hadn't pried into Johanna Beckett's case at all.

But he didn't have a time machine and for once in his life, not even speculating about time travel could distract him.

Beckett had lost her best chance at finding her mom's killer. Beckett was crying.

And he could do nothing.

* * *

Kate couldn't seem to stop crying.

She hunched over the sink in the bathroom, her still-bloody hands clutching the sides of the sink, and cried, ugly, jagged sobs being torn from her throat, racking her body.

She cried for her mom, killed by a contract killer who'd dismissed her mother's murder as just another job, cried for her dad, cried for herself.

Cried for how close she'd come to finding out who had killed her mom after 11 endless, long years and had their strongest lead broken, a thread snapped.

And she cried because after so many years, she'd finally learned who had actually committed the murder, had a face and a name to attach to the anonymous shadow killer of her imaginings, and she'd killed him.

She had killed her mother's killer. Life for a life.

But it wasn't really over, not that neatly.

Because she still didn't know who had actually ordered her mom to be killed, didn't know who was actually responsible for her mother's murder.

And she might never know now.

She didn't regret it, would never regret it; she would do it again if she had to. Take a life to save a life. Not only because it was Castle—she'd shut her mind and her heart to that, couldn't deal with it, and still didn't try—and not only because it was her job but because it was who she was.

But she still cried.

She knew or sensed (or something) that Castle was just outside—she was aware that he'd followed her as she'd fled into the bathroom—but she hoped that the sound of the running water was enough to cover her sobs.

At least she'd had that much presence of mind because even in this extremity, her unwillingness to be so openly vulnerable was still strong. She hadn't been able to hold back her tears earlier, just after she'd shot Coonan—and she expected she'd writhe over that later, over crying in front of so many of her colleagues—but even so, as she broke down further, she didn't want anyone else seeing her or hearing her.

In some tiny corner of her mind, it occurred to her that later, she might be… relieved or thankful or something that Castle was out there because she knew, somehow, that he would also prevent anyone else from walking in right then. Even if one of her female co-workers honestly needed the bathroom, she knew he'd direct them to one on another floor, to the one in the lockers, just not this one. (She didn't stop to wonder how she knew he'd do that; she just knew it. He knew her well enough for that and somehow, she knew he'd try to help in the only way he really could. As irritating as he could be at times, when it really mattered, she trusted Castle to do what he could to make her life easier.)

It was a small comfort, that she could break down like this without any worry of being interrupted. Possibly the only comfort she had at that moment.

And so she cried. Cried until gradually the sobs slowed and her tears dried out and she was calm again, the calm of exhaustion after the emotional upheaval of the day, but calm. Her eyes felt scratchy, her eyelids swollen. She finally washed her hands, scrubbing harshly at Coonan's now-dried blood to make sure she got it all off, shuddering a little at the look of the blood and water swirling down the drain, trying not to think that it was also her best chance at finding out who was really behind her mom's murder going down the drain too. Stupid symbolism.

She had to get a hold of herself. She was still at work, still on duty.

She deliberately regulated her breathing, in and out, in and out, letting the focus on the simple bodily function calm her. She was NYPD Detective, Grade-One, Kate Beckett. She had been doing her job to shoot Coonan and she would go back out there and continue to do her job.

It took another few minutes for her to summon her usual armor, the shield of her calm and cool Detective Beckett persona that was as much a part of her work outfits as the badge she wore.

That done, she dried her hands and opened the door.

To be faced immediately with Castle, his eyes flying to her face as he took an impulsive step forward, towards her. "Beckett. Kate, are you… okay?"

Oh god, the way he was looking at her. Her breath, her step, faltered in spite of herself just at the sight of him, the warmth and the concern shining out of his eyes and written all over his face.

This man, who had given $100,000 of his own money without batting an eye for a shot at her mom's killer and called it a small price to pay. This man, who tried so hard to make her smile and simply cared about her in a way she couldn't remember anyone else ever doing.

She couldn't do this now. Couldn't deal with the flood of emotions the sight of him evoked, couldn't handle the depth of emotion she saw in his eyes.

He lifted a cautious hand as if to rest it on her shoulder but she twitched her shoulder away from his touch and his hand fell back to his side. She couldn't—she _couldn't_ let him touch her, not even a brief, entirely platonic gesture of support and sympathy. She felt as if her composure were being held in place by fraying threads and if he touched her, offered her his strength and his comfort, she thought she might dissolve right then, all her hard-won, fragile calm crumbling into dust.

She _couldn't_ deal with it, any of the tsunami of emotions he stirred up, the memory of that moment with Coonan's gun pressed to his side. Not now. She needed to be strong, needed to be Detective Beckett, not Kate.

But even as she thought it, she caught the flash of something like hurt in his eyes and her heart twisted inside her, a tiny bit of her resolve chipping away. She couldn't hurt him either. She took a half-involuntary step towards him, her hand reaching out, her fingers accidentally brushing against his stomach, as she grasped his jacket for a second as if to hold him in place before dropping it. "Castle, I—I need to report to Captain Montgomery, need to call my dad. I—maybe you should go home. It…it's been a long day and there's nothing more for you to do here, just paperwork. I—I'll call you, okay?"

It was the truth, all of it, but she felt the lameness of it, the inadequacy of it. After all he'd done, after everything, he deserved more but she wasn't ready, couldn't deal with it, and she had to do her job, taking refuge in the familiarity of it.

"But Beckett, I—" he broke off and visibly restrained himself, rethinking his words, and she heard his voice in her mind saying, _I will do anything that you need, including nothing, if that's what you want_. He had meant it and he was, still, keeping his promise. He paused and then nodded. "Of course," he agreed, with an attempt at ease. "You do what you need to; don't worry about me. Just…" he trailed off and hesitated and then finished, a little too earnestly, "you can call anytime."

A memory flashed into her mind, the look on his face with Coonan's gun jammed into his side, the way he'd shaken his head at Coonan's threat as if to tell her not to give up her mom's killer for his life. She shoved the memory aside, swallowed down the sob that was building up in her throat.

No, no, she couldn't deal with this now. She just couldn't.

And so she did what she always did when she felt threatened, she took refuge in work. "I need to talk to the Captain," she said again, repeating the words with preternatural flatness.

Castle hesitated, reluctance written all over his face, but then—as she'd somehow known he would—he listened. He gave way. "Okay. I'll… talk to you later?"

It was a question and she answered it with a nod and then he left and she shut her eyes for a moment, breathing in and then out, before she headed to the Captain's office.

She felt the concerned gazes of everyone in the bullpen and inwardly writhed. Oh god, she'd cried in front of all of them. And even if they were her colleagues and she was on friendly terms with (most of) them, she still hated how exposed she suddenly felt. She thought her professional reputation and credibility had been built up enough to withstand the appearance of momentary weakness (she hoped) but that didn't mean she liked it any more to know her colleagues were wondering about her. She was a private person. She _hated_ the idea of people talking about her, guessing at her emotional state after shooting Dick Coonan. (And she was too much of a realist, had seen too much, not to know that lurking in the background of such speculations would be the lingering specter of sexism, of old stereotypes about women being overly emotional, given to hysterics. There were good, valid reasons for why she'd cultivated her carapace of cool invulnerability at work.) And now, in one devastating moment, her shield had fallen.

She felt Esposito's and Ryan's looks too, but she steadfastly avoided their eyes as she walked into Montgomery's office after a perfunctory knock. "Sir."

Montgomery studied her sharply as she took a seat in front of his desk but all he did was nod in greeting. "Detective Beckett."

The formality of the address, his tone, set the stage for the next few minutes. She tamped down all emotions, making her report of what happened and how Coonan got a gun and his threats briefly, answering Montgomery's few, incisive questions with near-robotic control until she suspected she sounded like she was reporting something entirely unrelated to her, that had happened many years ago to a total stranger. Forced detachment was all she could manage.

She was a Detective; she knew how to make a report of a situation and a hostage stand-off. It took every bit of training and self-control she had, but she managed it.

Montgomery put down his pen and fixed her with an assessing look. "All right, Detective, I'll file the Incident Evaluation for One PP. You can go home and take tomorrow off."

She nodded, unsurprised. Cops who were involved in any sort of incident that ended up with a fatality were almost always put on desk duty for a day or so afterwards, if not involved in an active case, while the incident was reviewed; the Captain telling her to take the day off was his tacit acknowledgment of how personal this was for her, a silent expression of support. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

He paused, glancing away, out the windows towards the bullpen, and then back at her. "Where's Castle?" he asked with a slight change of tone, somewhat approaching his usual one.

She straightened her already straight back, sternly tamping down the flare of emotion at the mention of his name. "I sent him home, sir."

He nodded. "Fine. I have everything I need." He paused and then went on, "You might tell him, though, that the money he sent is gone. He won't be able to get it back, even with Coonan dead."

The money. Oh god, the money.

No, no, she couldn't think about it.

"I understand, sir."

Montgomery studied her for a moment and then looked away, down at the notepad on his desk. "That was a hell of a thing," he mused aloud. "I have seen a lot in my years on the force, a lot of bad but also a lot of good… That was a hell of a thing he did." He left unsaid but she heard it anyway, a hell of a thing Castle had done _for her_.

Not just the money but also the unflinching support, his quick thinking, his courage, the calculated risk he'd taken in head-butting Coonan to get the vital moment of distraction. All of it, everything Castle had done for _her_.

Oh god.

She felt herself blushing in spite of herself as she suddenly realized that Montgomery _knew_ —the boys knew. Word about Castle's proffered money had been kept under the radar from the bullpen as a whole but obviously, the boys knew. They knew how much Castle cared about her, how much he was willing to do for her…

And she… couldn't think about it now.

Montgomery looked back at her, holding her eyes. "I had my doubts about Castle when he started following you around, thought about kicking him out."

She blinked. "But the Mayor…"

He shot her a mildly chiding look. "This is my house, Beckett, and I run the show here. I could have kicked him out but I didn't. You know why?"

She jerked her head in a negative, wondering what Montgomery was getting at. It wasn't like him to spontaneously offer confidences.

"He proved that he was helpful, even made your case closure rate go up, but more than that, I saw that he was good for you."

She blushed hotter and looked down at her lap, shutting her eyes for a moment as she tried to get a hold of her rioting emotions. Good for her. The words seemed so… small… to express what Castle did for her. He made her job more fun as she'd told him; more than that, he made things… easier. As much as he could—and did—irritate her, somehow, in some way, he made her life… better than it had been.

There was a pause and then Montgomery only repeated, "Yes, that was a hell of a thing he did."

She didn't say anything in response—what could she say? It was true.

Montgomery straightened up in his chair. "Go home, Detective. You're off duty tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." She stood up, turning towards the door.

"Beckett?"

She turned back, one hand on the door knob. "Sir?"

"Nice job today."

Oh god. She almost flinched, feeling the impact of the words, because she couldn't feel any sense of triumph.

She had killed the man who murdered her mother—but where was the victory in that when she had also lost her best chance to find out who had paid Coonan to do it?

She tamped down her rising emotions. "Thank you, sir," she managed to say and then she escaped.

She fled into the unused conference room, closing the door and then the blinds for good measure, before she sank down into a chair.

She choked back a sob, blinking frantically against the prick of tears, the tears she'd thought she'd cried out of her system earlier. She'd been wrong.

She'd killed Dick Coonan.

She could almost hear the insidious whispers creeping into her consciousness, the ones that had driven her obsession, that she let her mom down if she couldn't find her mom's killer. And now she'd killed the best chance of finding out who was really behind her mom's murder. Was still failing her mother, even after finding out that Dick Coonan was the killer.

It wasn't the first time she'd killed someone and she doubted it would be the last. But this one—this one stung, would haunt her.

Could she have done something, anything, differently? Somehow kept Coonan alive but still incapacitated him?

But… she'd saved Castle.

She would have done it for anyone, she knew, but the fact remained that she had saved Castle.

Castle.

She tried to focus on that, on what (who) she'd saved and not what she'd lost, and slowly, the vise around her heart eased a little and she could breathe again.

Feeling somewhat calmer, she pulled out her phone, steeling herself again.

Oh god, what was she going to tell her dad?

From somewhere inside, she heard her mom's voice answering, _the truth is always best, Katie._

Her dad answered his phone immediately, so much so that she realized with a pang that he had probably been watching his phone, waiting for her call, all day. "Hello, Katie?"

With that knowledge, she skipped over any mundane greeting. "We caught him and he's dead."

She choked a little on the word and had to stop and heard her dad suck in his breath sharply. "What? Katie, what happened? Are you okay?" His voice rose with every word and she realized with a little twist of guilt and anxiety just how worried her usually calm lawyer father had been.

She swallowed back the threatening sob, forcing as much calm into her voice as possible, although she suspected it wouldn't succeed in fooling her dad. "We caught him, Dad, the man who killed Mom. His name is Dick Coonan."

"Dick Coonan," her dad echoed, his voice sounding hollow and unlike himself.

She flinched. They had a name. After all these years, all the grief, all the devastation, they had a name to put to the man who had murdered her mother. The faceless shadow of her imaginings, faceless no more. She pressed her fingers to her mouth to hold back another sob, understanding what her dad was feeling right then.

Her dad cleared his throat a little. "What—what happened, Katie?" She could hear the effort it took to keep his voice from trembling.

She swallowed hard, shutting her eyes as if that would help. "He… he tricked us and almost got away with it but we figured it out and then he… he tried to escape and I… I had to shoot him." She didn't mention the money Castle had given, the fact that it was Castle who'd been taken hostage, wasn't sure she could talk about it at all without her voice cracking, her fragile composure crumbling.

"Oh God," her dad uttered. "Katie… Are you okay?"

"I just… I killed him. I killed our best lead…" She fought to keep her voice from trembling but knew she failed.

Her dad sighed. "Oh, Katie…"

"I'm sorry, Dad," she choked out. "I'm sorry I didn't find out who was really behind it all, who paid Coonan."

"Don't, Katie," her dad said sharply. "Don't apologize. Whatever happens, this isn't on you; I know you did everything you could."

Had she really? Was there any way that she could have shot Coonan not to kill but less lethally and still saved Castle? She didn't know, wasn't sure. Possibilities, alternate scenarios played through her mind, as she expected they would be doing for at least the next few days. If she'd shot Coonan in the shoulder or the hand—but those shots were harder to make, had a greater risk that that he wouldn't be incapacitated or that she'd miss her shot. She was a good shot but in the heat of the moment, any cop—every cop—became less sure of a marksman. And that was the problem. Because trying for the non-fatal shot would have been a risk and any risk to Castle was unacceptable. She couldn't do that. Not because he was Castle but because she was a cop and any risk to a civilian, to a hostage, was always non-negotiable.

"You did everything you could, Katie," her dad repeated. "I know you and I'm as sure of that as if I'd been there. You did what you had to do and you never need to apologize for that."

Her dad's faith acted as a balm on her lingering wounds. She had done her job, what she had to do.

She had taken the shot to save a life. That was all. She'd had to do it, would do it again.

She had saved Castle. She had saved Castle—and against that, nothing else mattered. And yet…

"I just… I thought… I hoped… it would be over so we can move on."

Her dad sighed. "Oh Katie-girl… I understand that, I do, but moving on isn't really related to finding out who killed her. You shouldn't be putting your life on hold until you find your mother's killer; that's not how this works. It's about coming to terms with the past, making peace with it and learning to live with it."

Making peace with the past—but how could she do that without knowing who was responsible for her mom's death? Without knowing why? She'd accepted the grief over her mom as part of her life but coming to terms with her mom's death—she needed answers first.

"I don't know how to do that, don't know if I can," she faltered.

"You can, Katie. You're strong; you've always succeeded at anything you put your mind to." He paused and then added, "And remember, life never delivers anything…"

"We can't handle," she finished her mom's saying with him, managing a watery little smile even as tears pricked her eyes. "I remember."

"You found your mother's killer. You did it."

"Not just me. Castle helped." (And Kate was entirely unconscious of how her tone softened at his name—or of how much it revealed to Jim Beckett.)

Her dad paused and then asked, his voice sounding somewhat more at ease, "You let Rick help?"

"I… I don't know if I could have done this without him," she admitted, surprising herself with the words—and, more, with the truth of them.

She couldn't have done it without Castle. Not because of the money but because of the support he'd given her, the added measure of strength she'd derived from knowing he was there. From the way he'd known to crack a joke and make her smile by quipping that he'd based Nikki Heat on her because she was tall. He had been—he was—her _partner_. After all this time of thinking of him as her irritating shadow, he had become much more than that. He was her partner. A word that had such significance to any cop.

A partner—the one who always had your back, the one you trusted the most, the one you knew would stay by your side even into hell and back.

She hadn't had a real partner at work in a long time. Esposito and Ryan were both her partners in a sense but it was really the two of them that were a team, a pair, while she technically supervised them, the head of the triangle, so to speak. A partner was an equal.

Castle was her partner.

She felt a flicker of surprise. God, if anyone had told her even six months ago, that Castle, the irritating thorn in her side, would become her partner, she would have deemed the person insane. Ridiculous to think that the brash playboy, the impulsive man-child, that she'd thought he was could ever be her partner. And yet he was.

Her partner, her friend—and… and more than that too.

"I'm glad you have a friend like Rick, Katie."

"He's been… a good friend," she admitted quietly, a tendril of warmth unfurling inside her chest at the thought of him, of all he had done for her.

"And you, Katie, how are you? Are you okay?"

"I'm—I'll be fine," she amended, knowing her dad, lawyer that he was, would pick up on the significance of that.

"Do you want me to come over? I can go to the precinct or meet you at your place."

"No, that's okay, Dad. Esposito and Ryan are here if I need them and I have paperwork to do."

She did. Captain Montgomery would file his Incident Evaluation but she would need to write up her own report of the situation for him first, in addition to the usual paperwork to close the Jack Coonan case.

"Okay, Katie, if you're sure."

"I am. But… dinner tomorrow?"

"Of course," he agreed immediately. "You're sure you'll be all right, Katie? I can come over; it's no problem, you know that."

"I'm sure, Dad. What about you? Will you be okay?" she asked with a flare of worry for her dad along with a pang of guilt. She hadn't thought what it might do to her dad to burden him with her own emotional turmoil.

"I'll be fine, Katie. Don't worry about me. I'll call Daniel. I already talked to him about this and he's probably expecting to hear from me again."

"Okay. But call me if you need anything."

"I know, Katie-girl." And for the first time, she heard a faint smile in his voice, that faded as he went on, "I'm proud of you, Katie. Your mom would be proud of you."

She bit back a strangled sob, the words breaking through her tenuous control of her emotions. "I don't know why," she choked out. "I… I lost our best lead." She'd failed—was still failing to get justice for her mother.

Her dad sighed but answered firmly, "Katie, you did your job. I know what your mom's case does to you but you rose above your fears and you did what you needed to do." He paused and added, his voice husky with emotion, "I, of all people, understand how hard it is to overcome your demons and you did it. Of course I'm proud of you. I've always been proud of you."

She swallowed a lump of emotion, blinking against the prick of yet more tears. "Thanks, Dad," she whispered.

"I love you, Katie-girl."

"I love you too."

"Get some rest, Katie."

"I'll try. You too. Good night, Dad."

"Good night."

Kate shut her eyes and rested her head in her hands for a few minutes, controlling her breathing again in an attempt to rein in her emotions.

It had been harder than even she'd expected to tell her dad that they'd lost the best new lead they had because she'd been forced to kill Dick Coonan. They'd come so close, learned so much—and run into another dead end. Again.

 _If we run into a wall tomorrow, we'll get a ladder and climb over it or dig a tunnel or go around it. We won't give up._

She straightened up slowly, his words echoing in her mind.

Dick Coonan might have been their most direct lead but he wasn't the only one. There were the other people he'd killed, the other victims of the conspiracy that had killed her mother.

She wasn't going to give up. Not now, when they knew so much more.

And she wouldn't be alone.

She set her jaw and pushed herself to her feet.

She was Detective Beckett and she still had work to do.

And then… and then she needed to call Castle.

She emerged from the conference room and headed straight to her desk, feeling a tiny flicker of amusement at how Esposito and Ryan immediately tried to pretend that they weren't watching, had been busy with their own work.

She sat down and started to work on her paperwork even as she mentally placed bets on how long it would be before either Espo or Ryan approached her.

It would be Esposito who actually spoke but Ryan would tag along beside him, she predicted, and she placed the over-under on how long it would take at 5 minutes.

It took roughly three minutes.

Espo stood up, wandered into the break room, and then, with an air of casualness that wouldn't have fooled a five-year-old, just _happened_ to wander by her desk on his way back. And Ryan didn't even make a pretense and simply popped up out of his chair and joined Esposito.

"So we can take care of the paperwork on Jack Coonan," Esposito began with studied indifference.

Ryan nodded like a bobble-head in agreement, except he was eyeing her with a sort of wary concern as if she were a grenade primed to explode.

In any other workplace, among any other people, the offer would have been accompanied by a hug or some other overt gesture of sympathy. But they were cops and cops didn't do that, took refuge behind sarcasm and graveyard humor. But even so, for Esposito, who griped about paperwork even more than she did, to volunteer to do more of it was the equivalent of sky-writing a declaration of worry and support.

"Nah, no point because, knowing you guys, I'd just need to do it all over again to correct your mistakes," she returned. She found herself relaxing a little. This sort of back-and-forth was familiar, safe; this, she could do. No messy emotions to deal with—or at least the messy emotions were safely hidden away and unspoken.

"You should talk. We heard from the Captain that you're skiving off tomorrow and ditching us and we figure some of us have to actually work around here," Espo retorted.

"Just try not to get into too much trouble while I'm out," she advised with mock seriousness.

"Oh, you know, we were just gonna play with matches, run around with scissors, that sort of thing," Ryan answered with an entirely overdone air of nonchalance.

"Yeah, use your desk for target practice," Espo chimed in. "We'll try not to set your desk on fire or anything."

"But you know, no promises," Ryan supplemented. "Paperwork burning so easily and all."

"I'll make sure to tell the Captain to keep a fire extinguisher handy," she retorted dryly.

Espo shrugged. "We've gotta do something to amuse ourselves while we're working since you're going to be off playin' hooky."

"Speaking of, you guys should go back to work and stop distracting me. Can't talk to you all day when I've got paperwork to finish up."

She made a show of turning to her computer and after a beat, Esposito and Ryan both wandered back to their desks. She bit back a tiny smile, feeling more restored to her usual self after the last couple minutes of badinage. The boys had her back.

With that, she dove into the paperwork, closing the Jack Coonan case and writing up the Incident Report for the Dick Coonan shooting—keeping any and all emotions firmly in check.

It was her job and she knew how to do her job.

She did her paperwork and then she went home.

And she did not call Castle.

 _~To be continued…~_

 _A/N 2: If I promise a happy ending (soon), will you please not kill me? *runs and hides*_


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note: Posting a couple days early to make up for the ending of the last chapter.

 **For All That You Are**

 _Chapter 11_

"Beckett."

Castle blinked, surprise and something else widening his eyes fleetingly, as he swung open the door of the loft.

Oh. Oh god. Just the sight of him hit her in the chest like a physical blow and Kate felt butterflies start to riot inside her stomach. (It was overwhelming and terrifying how strongly she reacted to him.)

She tried for a casual shrug. "I know I said I'd call but, well, I was in the neighborhood."

It had sounded better in her head. It was quite possibly the lamest thing she'd ever said to him, a pitiful attempt at nonchalance. To say nothing of being untrue. Because she had gone home. She had gone home and had every intention of calling him and even pulled out her phone, her finger hovering over his name on the screen to call him—but as if the mere intention had opened up a dam, a torrent of thoughts, memories, had flooded her mind. The last couple days, the way he'd given up more money than she made in a year without blinking an eye, the way he'd hugged her, the way he'd supported her, helped her. Everything. And she'd found herself grabbing her car keys before she'd consciously decided to do so. After all that, a phone call wasn't enough. And she'd… just wanted to see him.

And so she'd come here. She still wasn't sure what she was going to say or do but she'd come here.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, a generous reaction to her dumb statement, as he stepped back. "Come in."

She entered and he closed the door behind her.

She shrugged out of her coat, leaving it on the couch, although he then took it and hung it up in the coat closet, his movements uncharacteristically fussy as if he wanted something to do to keep busy. "Where are Martha and Alexis?"

"My mother is out and Alexis is upstairs, probably finishing up her homework before bed."

Martha had gone out after the day he'd had?

"I didn't tell them… anything," he blurted out, as if in answer to her unspoken thought. "I didn't want to worry them."

Of course he wouldn't.

She was, suddenly, very glad she'd obeyed the impulse to come over. She'd assumed that Castle would have the comfort of Martha and Alexis to return to, the homey warmth of the loft and all the unstinting affection of his family, so unlike her own solitary apartment. But she hadn't taken into account the way Castle tried to protect both Martha and Alexis from worry. Of course he wouldn't have told them what had happened, how close he'd come to dying.

She inwardly flinched away from the thought.

He shifted, studying her and then looking away and then back again, as if he couldn't quite keep his eyes off her for long. "Can I get you anything? Something to drink?"

She shook her head. "No, thanks. I just… can we talk?" Not that she really knew what she wanted to say.

Another small smile played around his lips. "I'm always able to talk, you ought to know that by now."

She managed a smile at that, as she knew he'd intended. "Right, silly me."

He gestured her over to the couch after which he flung himself down into one corner.

She sat down and then studied him in her turn, a little surprised at his silence. It wasn't like him, as he'd said.

He was looking down and then, after a moment, he glanced up and asked, quietly, "How is your dad? You talked to him?"

She swallowed back the lump of emotion at the thought of her dad, even as warmth coiled around her heart at Castle's concern for her dad. "He was… worried but he understands. I think… I think he'll be fine." She hoped.

He nodded. "Your dad's strong," he said in gentle reassurance.

"I know he is," she murmured. But she would still worry. She'd seen her dad at his weakest, when he was the most broken, and as much as she tried, she could not entirely forget it. But it occurred to her that, for the first time, she wasn't alone in concern for her dad. Castle knew, he understood.

It was—should have been—a more surprising thought than it was. She'd never been able to rely on anyone else when it came to her dad. Captain Montgomery knew of her dad's problems, as had Royce. The boys knew the outlines of it. But aside from the Captain's past flexibility in allowing her time off to take care of her dad, she'd always been alone. It wasn't quite the same; her dad was sober now (and he would stay that way, she believed that. She did.) But all the same, it meant something to know that someone else—that Castle—understood about her dad.

"It's just… hard for him and I wish… I wanted to have more answers for him, wanted to be able to tell him why," she faltered.

Castle didn't respond, only looked away but she caught the look that flitted across his face. He was trying to hide it but she saw it and in a flash of understanding, she realized why Castle was acting so uncharacteristically subdued.

Oh Castle. She hadn't even thought…

She shifted closer to him on the couch, getting his attention so he looked at her, and she met his eyes. "It wasn't your fault, you know."

And knew she'd been right when his expression went stiff and then blanked for a moment. "I overstepped…"

"Castle…"

For probably the first time since they'd met, he went on as if he hadn't heard her, looking away from her. "I… I just want you to know that I'm sorry and I've been thinking…" he paused, took a breath, and then went on, his voice low, "it might be best if I… stopped…"

Stopped… what?

He looked back up at her and she read the seriousness of his intent in his eyes before he continued, "I can't shadow you anymore. If it hadn't—"

Her heart stuttered in her chest—he was thinking of leaving, leaving _her_ , and she couldn't lose him, couldn't let him go, and she couldn't pretend anymore, to herself or to him, that she didn't want him more than any other man she'd ever known—and before she could think better of it, she leaned forward and cut off his words with her lips. He stiffened in surprise and she lingered just long enough until she felt his lips soften and then, sternly reining in her own desires, she drew back.

His eyes blinked open and he stared at her, his eyes wide with surprise and some confusion and at the same time, bright with so much dawning emotion it made her breath catch in her throat. And if she'd had any lingering doubts about how much Castle cared about her, how deeply his emotions went, they would have dissipated in that moment. And she knew. Whatever Castle felt for her—and she wasn't ready to put a label on it—it was real and it was deep and it was serious.

 _He cares about you, Katie…_

He cared. A lot. Cared, maybe even more than she'd ever realized…

And so did she.

"Kate, I… you… I just… if it wasn't for me…"

He really was blaming himself. And somehow, faced with his sense of guilt, Kate came to terms with her own, made peace with what she'd done, the last, niggling sense of her own remorse easing.

"If it wasn't for you, I would have never found my mother's killer," she interrupted him firmly.

"But if I hadn't—"

"Stop it, Castle. I did what I had to do and I don't regret it. And someday soon, I'm going to find the sons of bitches who had Coonan kill her," she swore, a vow to herself as well as to her parents, "and I'd like you around when I do." She paused, met his so blue eyes. "I don't want you to go," she admitted simply. It was as much as she could say, the messy emotions getting tangled up in her throat. She never could seem to put into words the things that meant the most and right now, with him, everything inside her was a tangled mass of feelings, of fear and hope and gratitude and affection and desire—oh, yes, a lot of desire, simmering in her blood after the too-brief touch of her lips to his. (She wanted to kiss him. Again. And again. Wanted to kiss him and touch him and feel his arms around her, his hands on her…)

"Then I won't," he promised immediately. "Anyway, even if I stopped shadowing you, I didn't mean walking away from _you_. I don't think I ever could."

"I don't want you to go," she said again. "You make things… easier. And you're my partner, Castle."

Surprise and delight flared across his expression, broke it open. He knew—of course he knew, he'd spent enough time in the precinct in the last year to understand the significance of the word. "Partners," he repeated, a tinge of wonder in his tone, but it was also a promise.

And then, the spark of humor, of mischief, in his eyes—so familiar—presaged his words, the beginnings of a smirk tugging on his lips, as he asked, "So does that mean you'll kiss me again?"

Yes, this was definitely still Castle, the Castle she knew so well. She felt a bubble of affection well up inside her and tipped forward to bury her laugh in his shoulder, her nose nudging the collar of his shirt aside so she could breathe in his familiar scent. She liked this spot, she decided, this curve where his neck met his shoulder.

She felt his hands come up to her waist, holding her, not quite a full-on embrace but not quite not, his hands hot and solid through the cloth of her shirt.

She lifted her head just enough to direct a smile at him. "I don't know. What do you think?" she teased—and even before the words were fully out of her mouth, he was kissing her, his mouth slanting over hers, his tongue sweeping along her lower lip and her lips parted for his questing tongue. And he was somehow demanding and gentle and oh so seductive all at the same time as he took possession of her mouth with devastating thoroughness.

She sagged against him, her mind going deliciously fuzzy, because oh god, he was a good kisser and if this was what it felt like to kiss Castle, then she should have kissed him days ago, months ago. Should have insisted he kiss her every day—possibly every minute of every day—since the moment they'd met and she definitely never wanted another day to go by without kissing Castle…

Slowly, with palpable reluctance, he released her, his lips leaving hers to wander, dropping soft, butterfly kisses on the corner of her mouth, her chin, her jaw, her cheek, the soft hollow just before her ear. She found herself arching into him, turning her head to give him greater access, and then leaning forward to rest against his shoulder, her arms slipping around him.

He wrapped his arms around her, settling her more firmly against him, and she relaxed into his embrace, feeling his rapid breaths against her ear, the reassuring cadence of his heartbeat. He was so warm and solid against her. Alive.

An image flashed into her mind, the moment of seeing Coonan jam the gun into Castle's side, the look on Castle's face. Coonan's voice. _You make a sound, you attempt to signal, you so much as clear your throat and I'll put a round in this man's liver. And he will die slowly and in considerable pain._

A shudder went through her and she turned her face into his shoulder, closing her eyes and breathing in his familiar scent. He must have felt her slight shudder because he tightened his arms around her and she felt him turn his head to brush a kiss against her hair. A little tendril of warmth unfurled inside her, banishing the chill of memory.

But even as she felt a little calmer, her fears, her uncertainties, lingered, creeping back into her mind insidiously, like a sea fog stealing inland.

She cared about him, wanted him in her life (in her bed—she pushed aside the irrelevant thought). But she didn't know how to do this, didn't know if she could do this. She was vulnerable now, at a weak point, she knew that, and she was afraid that in the common light of common day, she'd fall back into old habits, her default position of keeping distance between herself and any vulnerability.

Kissing him had been the easy part. (The very easy part that she wanted to do again and again. She ignored the unhelpful voice in her mind.)

It was what came after that was harder. Because this was Castle and he wasn't, he could not be, just a short-lived affair or a stuck-in-neutral relationship where she could keep him at arm's-length, keep him from getting too closely involved in other aspects of her life. (He already was involved in her life.) This—whatever this was—had to be real because he cared about her and she cared about him (too much) and it meant too much…

It was terrifying, how strong her feelings, how visceral, how much he seemed to have woven himself into every part of her life so she thought she couldn't get him out without tearing the very fabric of her life apart.

He could devastate her. Losing him would devastate her.

Oh god, how could she do this?

How could she not do this? She couldn't lose him. In that one moment when she'd seen his life threatened—before she'd shut down all emotions—she'd known she was more afraid of losing him than she was of just about anything else.

She wanted him in her life, wanted to be with him. She did. She couldn't deny it to herself anymore, all her denial stripped away in that stark moment of terror.

She just wasn't sure she could have the real relationship she wanted, wasn't sure she even knew how to open herself up to someone else. There was a reason she didn't really date, a reason any potential relationships tended to founder on the rocks of her unwillingness to let anyone too close to her. Even with Will, she suddenly realized, she'd tried to keep him at a distance, had carefully limited the time she spent at his apartment or that he spent at hers, hadn't given him a key to her place. Will had left for bigger and better things in Boston but she had let him leave, hadn't fought it. What Castle had once told her, that she didn't give up or back down, was only true for work. When it came to her relationships, she hadn't tried, hadn't fought.

Now, with Castle, she knew she couldn't do that. She wanted more than that. But she didn't know how.

"Castle?"

"Hmm?"

"I just… I'm bad at this," she blurted out inanely.

He huffed a breathless little laugh. "Are you fishing for compliments, Kate, because I've gotta say, 'bad' is not how I'd describe what just happened. Amazing, incredible, mind-blowing even, but definitely not bad."

She choked on a laugh even as she felt a blush heat her cheeks. "I didn't mean that." She lifted her head to meet his eyes, sobering. "I meant… I'm bad at… relationships. I don't let on what's on my mind; I don't… let people in. I don't know how to let people in. It's like I built up this wall inside me after… after my mom died… and I don't know how to take down the wall."

"It's okay. We don't need to have all the answers. I'm not going anywhere. I'm stubborn, you know, and persistent and when it comes to things I care about, I can be patient too. And if you want this, want… us…"

"I do," she interrupted him, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest at the admission. But it was the truth. She did want this, wanted him in every way, wanted a real relationship with him. (And there had been a flicker of uncertainty, of nervousness, in his eyes and his tone and it abruptly occurred to her that for all her lingering fears, he was vulnerable too, as vulnerable as she was in some ways, because he cared. The vulnerability went both ways and somehow, oddly enough, that eased some of her fears.)

A smile played around the edges of his lips for a moment, his eyes flaring bright and hot, but he went on soberly. "Then I'll do whatever it takes to make this work. We can take it slowly, a step at a time, and I can't imagine you failing at anything you set your mind to. I won't push you for anything you're not ready for, I'm not going to ask for extravagant declarations or promises. You don't have to wear a 'Richard Castle's Number One Fan' t-shirt into the precinct—although if you _wanted_ to, I certainly wouldn't object…"

She choked on a laugh. Ridiculous man. What was she supposed to do with him? But what would she do without him to make her laugh when she needed it, give her courage with his humor? "In your dreams, Castle."

His smirk abruptly faded, his voice sincere, even as a hint of humor still glinted in his eyes. "You're in my arms and you just kissed me. I think the evidence is pretty clear that my dreams come true."

"Do you get results with a line like that?" she tried to scoff but her voice came out sounding more breathy than dry and she knew she was flushing, the color in her cheeks betraying the way her heart reacted. Oh, this man and his words. She didn't know how he did it, affect her so strongly with words that would have made her roll her eyes if anyone else tried them, but somehow, when he said them, his words just got to her. Maybe it was the sincerity in his eyes, the knowledge that he really meant it.

He didn't respond to her teasing, only went on, "I'm just saying, we don't have to rush into anything you're not comfortable with. I'm not going anywhere and after all, you didn't like me at first either and I won you over, didn't I?"

She bit her lip but couldn't quite hold back a smile. Yeah, he really had.

He flashed an answering smile but sobered as he finished, "I think we're going to be great and we can work together to make the wall come down. Okay, Kate?"

She liked the sound of her first name on his lips, the warmth and the tenderness of his tone softening the consonants until her name sounded like an endearment. She gave him a smile, her heart swamped with a tidal wave of emotion, of affection and amusement and hope. "Okay," she agreed softly. And the word was a promise. She wasn't good at letting people in but, oh, she wanted to try. With him, for him, she wanted to try, _wanted_ to let him in, and maybe that was enough for now.

He lifted a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek in a light caress, and she felt herself flush, her heart fluttering all over again. Because his eyes were so blue and so soft and he looked at her as if he never wanted to look at anything else, and he touched her as if she were a miracle. She lifted her own hand to grasp his, pressing it against her cheek, and then turned her head to kiss his palm.

He sucked in his breath, his eyes going dark with desire, making heat spark inside her. "Kate?" His voice sounded husky.

"Hmm?"

"I know I said we can take this slowly—and we can—but I can still kiss you, right? Because I can be patient but I—"

She cut him off with a kiss, leaning in to press her lips against his, her tongue making a quick, teasing foray into his mouth, before she forced herself to draw back. "Satisfied?"

He pulled an exaggerated pout. (God, he was adorable.) "No. You stopped. You should never stop kissing me."

Ridiculous man. She rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to make a snarky comment but before any words formed, he suited action to the words and tugged her in to kiss her and she found his tongue in her mouth and her eyes fluttering closed and… and she gave up, gave in.

And her last fuzzy thought was that he might have been right, she should never stop kissing him, they should never stop kissing each other…

A loud chime made them both startle and break apart, Kate having to blink and catch her breath, before belatedly realizing what the sound had been. Her phone.

He was looking as discombobulated as she felt and she shot him a half-apologetic look. "Sorry. I'd better check this out." She always kept her phone on and nearby, always checked it as soon as she could; with her job, it was so often a matter of life or death, well, a matter of death. She extricated herself from his arms, sitting up, and reached out to grab her phone from her purse, lying on the floor.

It was a text message from Lanie. _Javi just told me what happened. You okay, Kate? You need anything? I've got booze and can be at your place in 20 minutes._

Oh, right. She'd forgotten that Lanie would inevitably hear about what had happened with Coonan.

"Is it—Do you need to leave?"

"It's Lanie," she explained. "She heard about what happened."

"You can call her. Use my office if you want to."

"No, I don't need to call her. I'll just text her back," she responded and realized with a little surprise that it was true. At one time, she would have wanted to talk to Lanie after what had happened. Lanie, who was her best friend, who knew what her mom's case meant to her, and whom she could confide in without worry, unlike with her dad. But now, tonight, she didn't need to talk to Lanie. All she needed was… Castle. (God, when had that happened?)

She sent Lanie a quick text that she was fine and would talk to her tomorrow and then noted with some surprise that it was well after 10. "It's getting late."

"You can—will you stay?"

Stay here with him? She blinked at him as a series of images straight from the fantasies she wouldn't have admitted having until today flashed through her mind—stripping off their clothes, his hands and his mouth on her body—and she felt herself flushing, her heart suddenly beating a wild tattoo against her chest. Oh. Oh god. It wasn't that she didn't want him—she obviously did—but she was tired and… and she knew she was vulnerable right now, her thoughts and emotions all over the place, and… and he'd almost died… and they'd just kissed for the first time and…

"Not for—that. I mean—I didn't mean—just to sleep. You can even take the guest room if you want to—or I've got a big bed and I just want to hold you, I swear," he blurted out, less than coherently.

She hadn't planned to stay—not that she'd really planned anything at all in deciding to come here—and in spite of her desire, something inside her shied away from the idea of immediately leaping into bed with Castle (it was too much, too soon—wasn't it?)—but she looked at him, at the uncertainty and nervousness and sincerity written all over his face.

He grimaced a little at his own awkwardness and added, more seriously, a shadow flickering across his expression, "I just… I really don't want to say goodbye to you right now."

Oh. She was, again, reminded that he might be as vulnerable as she was right now. He didn't want to be alone—and neither did she, really.

And on the thought, she found herself agreeing, "Okay, I'll stay."

If she'd needed confirmation that it was the right answer, she would have gotten it in the way his entire body—not just his eyes or his expression but his entire body—seemed to light up with happiness, with wonder, his shoulders lifting, his posture straightening, his lips curving into a smile.

It was overwhelming and a little… terrifying to see and realize just how much and how deeply he cared.

(What was wrong with her to make it so terrifying to know that the man she cared so much about cared for her too?)

"The guest room's upstairs or…"

She let out a breath. She might be screwed up, might be bad at this relationship thing, but she wanted to be better. And she trusted him. She'd never shared a bed with a man she hadn't had sex with but this was Castle. He wouldn't push, would never insist on more than she was comfortable with. She managed a small smile. "I don't need the guest room."

He smiled again, his eyes so bright and so blue, and then he stood up and held out a hand.

She bit her lip—oh god, was she really about to literally sleep with Richard Castle in his bed?—but put her hand into his and, for once, let him tug her to her feet.

His bedroom was large and comfortable-looking. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting—she'd stopped trying to deny that she'd wondered about his bedroom, about his bed, about him in his bed—but somehow she was vaguely surprised by his bedroom. It was expensively appointed, that much she'd expected, but it was also surprisingly understated, simple. He might appreciate luxury but he wasn't ostentatious about his wealth either.

She drifted over to the dresser to look at the pictures on display, smiling to herself at one which showed Castle holding hands with a pint-sized Alexis, who looked to be about four years old, the little girl's face turned trustingly up to his while he smiled down at her.

"Yeah, she was adorable, wasn't she? I mean, she still is, but she was even more adorable back then."

She turned to find Castle had come up beside her, his eyes soft as they rested on the picture with what Kate had come to term his 'Alexis look' because it was one she usually only saw when he was talking to or about his daughter. Her heart turned into a soft, melting thing in her chest—and clearly had seized control of her mouth because she found herself admitting, "You both were."

His smile lit up the room. "Thanks, but even I have to admit she's got me beat in the cuteness factor," he quipped.

"Oh, I'm not disputing that," she teased.

He pretended to make a face at her but then only handed her a small stack of clothes. "Here, I thought you could use these for pajamas."

She looked and had to smile. Typical Castle. It was a Batman t-shirt and _Star Wars_ pajama pants, printed with alternating images of the the Death Star, the Imperial Shuttle, and the Imperial fighters. "Thanks."

"And you can use the bathroom first."

"Thanks," she said again and then gave in to irresistible impulse and stood on her toes to brush her lips against his cheek, almost at the corner of his lips.

She glanced back at the doorway to the en suite bathroom to see him staring after her, a very faint smile curving his lips, looking a little befuddled and a lot adorable. (Oh, she did have it bad.)

She escaped into the bathroom and tried to let the mundane actions of washing her face and preparing for bed calm her but it was less effective than it might otherwise have been because, of course, she had to change into his clothes to use as pajamas. His clothes, soft and faded from multiple washings, and still retaining some of his scent.

She looked at herself in the mirror, feeling a little flutter of panic beginning. God, was she really about to do this, spend the night with Castle? He might not push but she couldn't kid herself that this wasn't the start of their relationship, something very real and deep, something that had the potential to become… everything. (No, no, not thinking like that. They were taking it slow, one step at a time.)

But this was Castle, she reminded herself. And somehow, that made it… easier.

Anyway, even though she guessed that he'd searched out clothes that had shrunk in the wash, they still positively drowned her to the point that a nun's habit would have been more revealing. She looked like a child playing dress-up in her parent's clothes. Definitely not an outfit for some grand seduction.

Only to rather rethink her conclusion when she stepped back into his bedroom and Castle stopped and stared, his eyes devouring every inch of her as if she were wearing the world's skimpiest negligee. She felt herself blush and only just stopped herself from twisting her hands in her shirt. "They're a little big on me." (Understatement). And then she could have kicked herself for sounding like an idiot.

"You—" he broke off, clearing his throat, and then finished, still a little huskily, "you look good in my clothes."

She looked down at herself. Really? She couldn't decide if she was flattered or amused. She looked back up at him and as if he'd read her mind, he added, "You always look good to me."

He disappeared into the bathroom on the words, leaving Kate to bite her lip and smile down at the floor like some blushing teenage girl who'd never received a compliment before. Oh damn. What this man could do to her…

She mentally shook herself and didn't know if it was boldness or shyness that had her climbing into Castle's bed even before he returned, appropriating the side closest to the bathroom and making sure she was well-covered by his comforter.

Oh wow, his bed was comfortable. She wriggled around a little. And the sheets… She smoothed a hand down them.

Clearly, sleeping with a bestselling author had its perks. The thought darted into her mind and she almost choked. It wasn't like that—but yeah, it wasn't… untrue either…

The door to the bathroom opened and she looked up to see Castle emerge wearing a white t-shirt and pajama pants (oh, he looked good), only to come to an abrupt halt as his eyes found her in his bed.

He blinked and then ducked his head and she heard him mumble, half to himself, "Yeah, my dreams definitely come true."

She flushed, the butterflies reappearing inside her, and found herself talking, trying to cover up her reaction. "I don't know which side you normally take."

His lips curled into a small smirk. "Ah, the middle, actually."

"A bed hog, I should have known."

He shrugged a little as he moved around to the other side of the bed. "I figure, why have a big bed if you're not going to take advantage of it?"

"You sure you're okay with sharing?" she teased, a little breathlessly. (This was the most ridiculous conversation.)

"It'll be a sacrifice but I'll suffer through," he quipped but then he had joined her on the bed and the amusement abruptly faded from both their expressions.

"Kate," he breathed.

She wasn't sure if her blush was from his tone or the way he was looking at her or the bare fact that they were in his bed, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his large form right next to her. Her breath tangled in her throat and after a moment, she shifted closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder. Easier, somehow, when she couldn't see his face, the emotions written over his expression overwhelming her. She felt his breath leave him and then he was sliding his arms around her, wrapping her up like a parcel, surrounded by his warmth and his strength.

Ohh… She let her eyes close, feeling the way the tension seemed to flow out of her, a wave of exhaustion taking a hold of her suddenly, now that she was at peace, warm and comfortable and safe.

"Castle." She couldn't think of anything to say so she settled for finishing, lamely, "good night."

She sensed his slight smile. "Good night, Beckett."

And she drifted to sleep.

Only to jerk awake a few hours later on a sharp gasp, a strangled scream clogging her throat. Blood. There was so much blood. And he—oh god, Castle—his blood was all over her hands and she couldn't stop it, couldn't save him as his eyes went blank and staring. And his blood still kept flowing…

"Kate? Kate, wake up. It's okay. Kate!"

He was—it was—she tried to breathe through her heart rabbiting around in her chest, her trembling hands flying to his chest, his side, feeling the blessedly solid, unwounded flesh beneath his shirt. No blood. It had been a dream.

She made a sound that was half a gasp, half a sob. "Castle…"

"Kate, ssh, it's okay. I've got you," he murmured, tugging her into him, smoothing a hand down her hair.

She burrowed against him, close enough that she could feel the steady rhythmic beat of his heart, silent reassurance that he was alive, that it had just been a dream. One of his hands rubbed her back in slow, concentric circles, his solid warmth surrounding her. And slowly, she felt her own heart rate slow, return to normal, the chill of terror replaced by something much warmer, desire unfurling, heat slowly simmering inside her at the caress of his hand, his nearness.

She drew her head back just a little, enough to look at him, their faces close enough on the pillows that she was aware of their breaths mingling. It was too dark inside his room for her to see him as much more than a darker, denser shadow but her mind easily filled in his familiar features, his eyes. "Castle," she whispered—why, she didn't know.

They were close enough that she felt rather than heard the slight hitch in his breath.

"Kate," he breathed—and just the way he said her name was a caress and she felt a tiny shiver of lust wriggle through her from the sound of his voice, husky and soft.

And then he kissed her, softly, chastely at first, but she parted her lips for him, her fingers sliding into his hair as she deepened the kiss. He gave a muffled groan and the tenor of his kiss changed, became eager and passionate.

She melted against him, her arms sliding around him, down his shoulders, exploring the muscles of his back. He was broad and strong, and it was... delicious to have his bulk pressing against her, half weighting her down.

His lips left hers to trace a line of kisses along her jaw, down her throat, his lips and tongue laving her pulse point, finding the little hollow of her throat, and sending a wash of heat spreading through every inch of her. She moaned and arched, her head falling back as much as possible to give him greater access.

Her eager hands slid further down his back, found the hem of his shirt and took advantage of it riding up to find the hot, smooth skin just above his waistband.

A slight shudder went through him and he abruptly broke off his ministrations to her throat on a groan. "Kate, stop, wait," he gasped, his breathing ragged, "I promised I wouldn't push and I won't but we need to stop…"

Oh. Oh right, she was the one who'd hesitated, wanted to take it slow. She felt a surge of emotion swamp her heart, fill her chest, at his pulling back when she'd, inconsistently, been the one to urge him on, even though she could feel the tension of lust thrumming through his body, the growing hardness against her. And at that moment, with his body heavy over hers—with lust simmering in her veins—why had she hesitated? She couldn't remember anymore. It seemed—it was—nonsensical. When he'd agreed they could take this slow, she hadn't meant in the physical aspect; that wasn't what she was concerned about. Sex, she could do; sex with Castle, she'd wanted for weeks, months. And anyway, this was Castle and she trusted him and she wanted him and she knew how much he cared about her and what more could she possibly need to wait for before (finally) acting on what she wanted?

She feathered her lips lightly against his. "Don't stop, Castle," she whispered.

"Kate…" he panted, hesitating, "are you sure?"

She deliberately arched up against him, shifting so her thighs bracketed his hips, and swallowed his strangled groan with her lips. "I'm sure of you."

And then like a dam crashing down, all his restraint gave way at once and he gave in, kissing her hard and deep and his questing hands were eager and hers no less so, making quick work of stripping off their pajamas. And it dissolved into a blur of skin against skin, of caresses and kisses, of lips and teeth and tongue and hands, and she was panting and he was groaning and then he was finally, finally, inside her, filling her, and the wave of pleasure built and crashed over them both.

Later, she slumped deeper into the mattress, breathless, boneless, floating on the sea of their mutual satiation.

He shifted and tightened his arm around her, tucking her more firmly against him, and she was vaguely aware of feeling him nuzzle her hair and then dust a kiss against her ear. "Mm," he mumbled indistinctly, "knew we'd be great together."

Smug. At any other time, she would have teased him for it but at that moment, with bliss lying heavily over her, drowsiness beginning to settle in, she couldn't muster up the energy or the will to do so.

Instead, she curled her hand into his and drifted into sleep.

 _~To be continued…~_

A/N 2: I hope this satisfied! Just one chapter to go…


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note: Meant to post earlier but the site's been annoying. At any rate, without further ado, the last chapter, which is pretty much pure, unadulterated fluff. Enjoy!

 **For All That You Are**

 _Chapter 12_

Consciousness returned to Kate piecemeal, a series of vague realizations dawning on her sluggish mind in turn. She wasn't in her own bed; she was naked and, oh, she wasn't alone. She opened her eyes to see Castle and full awareness returned to her in a rush. Oh. Oh, right. Entirely unbidden, her lips curved into a soft smile, echoing the swell of warmth in her chest.

The pale gray light of early morning was filtering in through the curtains, providing enough illumination for her to see Castle, still sound asleep. Her internal body clock and the quality of the light told her it was still early, even by her standards, giving her plenty of time to study Castle.

She was the one who teased him for creepy staring but she was beginning to understand his fondness for it. She'd never seen Castle asleep before, looking younger and more vulnerable with his expression so open and at ease. The comforter had been pulled up but had ended up bunched across his stomach, the start of where the muscles of his chest tapered into his abdomen—her mouth went a little dry—and she tore her gaze back to his face. His hair was tousled, strands sticking up every which way (boyishly), and his chin was dark with morning stubble (not so boyishly). There was the barest hint of a smile curving his lips and she could see the faint tracing of lines around his eyes and mouth, evidence of all his smiles during the day.

Yeah, he was adorable (and sexy).

And she was… smitten.

She felt herself flush and turned her face into the pillow in a stupid, irrational attempt to hide her face and then was momentarily glad that no one, including Castle, was around or awake to see her.

Ugh, what was it about him that seemed to make her act nearly as childish as he did?

Not that what he had done to her—or what she had done to him—overnight had been childish at all.

She blushed hotter at the unbidden thought, memories, images, flooding her mind, the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress, the touch of his clever hands and possibly even more clever lips and tongue—no, stop it. She cut off the parade of sensual images. That way lay too much temptation because it was morning and they couldn't just lie around in bed all day because there was Alexis—oh crap, Alexis.

Kate froze, abruptly remembering that they were in his loft, his loft which was also home to his teenage daughter and his mother, and she… she hadn't planned for this either. She was abruptly overwhelmed because she'd just slept with Castle for the first time and they were going to need to tell his mother and his daughter; she was going to need to face his mother and his daughter and she could only imagine how awkward that encounter would be. She'd never met the mother of a boyfriend the morning after the first night—had she just thought of Castle as her boyfriend?—and she'd never dated anyone who had a kid before and oh god, what would Alexis think? She'd spent enough time with Alexis to feel as if the girl viewed her as a friend, the lunch after Kyra's wedding came to mind or Alexis's concern the other day, but it had to be weird as a teenager to see your dad date and then to know your dad had started sleeping with someone who had become something of a friend to you as well…

As usual, when she got agitated, she felt the need to be up and moving, couldn't simply lie still, and she slowly, carefully extricated herself from the bed, from Castle's leg tangled with hers, from his hand still loosely gripping hers, and retreated into the bathroom.

She was expecting to look like a mess—and she did, rather, her hair tousled with sleep (and sex) and there were—oh—small telltale marks on the side of her neck, her collarbone, lower—but for all that, she looked… happy too, her eyes brighter than Kate remembered seeing in a long time, a tiny, irrepressible smile flirting with the corners of her lips as she washed, contemplated showering but decided not to risk waking him, and dressed.

He was still sleeping soundly when she returned to his bedroom, gathering her necklace with her mother's ring and her dad's watch from the nightstand where she'd placed them last night. She paused, staring down at him, and he stirred, his head shifting away from her as he made a snuffling sort of noise.

And she had been debating sneaking out of the loft right then, with just a note or something, and leaving the talk with Martha and Alexis for another time when she wasn't doing the equivalent of a walk of shame—but at that moment, looking down at him, she knew she couldn't do that.

She would have done it. With any other man in a similar situation, she would have done it, dealing with messiness and awkwardness the way she usually did, by running, avoiding as much as she could. Meeting family members was a big step in a relationship, one she usually pushed off as long as possible. She hadn't met Will's parents until they'd been dating for more than four months and that first meeting had been at a restaurant, a carefully neutral spot. And it had been even longer than that before she'd introduced Will to her dad.

God, she was so bad at this. Relationships, getting involved in any real way beyond the merely physical.

But she'd promised to try to get better, for Castle, with Castle. And that also meant accepting his family, being accepted _by_ his family. Castle came as a package deal, as it were; there was no way to really have a relationship with him without also inevitably spending more time with Alexis and Martha. And it wasn't fair to Castle to expect or want him to spend many (or most) of his nights at her apartment; he had Alexis to think of and she couldn't—wouldn't—ask him to be any less devoted to Alexis.

Anyway, this whole meeting-the-family thing would be different with her and Castle. Had to be. Because she already knew his family, had already been accepted by Martha and Alexis with all that open-hearted warmth that seemed to characterize the entire family. Just like Castle had already met her dad. She and her dad had already been over for Thanksgiving dinner with Castle's family.

It had been different, inevitably, when she had just been Castle's friend but in a way, it also made it easier, didn't it? No awkward introductions as Castle's girlfriend to be made. (Oh god, she was Richard Castle's girlfriend…)

She could do this, couldn't she? Somehow, fit herself into life at the loft with Castle and his family?

It still seemed like too much, way too fast, like making assumptions of permanence and… family and… and things that came along with that.

But this was Castle and for him, for the man who'd invited her and her dad over to have Thanksgiving dinner with his family, who had paid a small fortune of his own money without batting an eye for a chance at catching her mom's killer, who did so much to try to make her smile and laugh—she wanted to be better, more open.

She was terrified—but she wanted it.

And she wanted to show him.

She crept carefully out of his bedroom and into the main room of the loft, heading to the kitchen.

His coffee machine was ridiculously complicated. It looked as if it were designed not only to make coffee but also possibly to cook breakfast, clean the kitchen, and then transmit messages to the moon while it was at it.

She grimaced. She was a competent, capable, intelligent adult. There was no reason she couldn't figure out how to operate the machine. It took a few false starts and more time than she would ever admit to anyone but she did, eventually, succeed in figuring the machine out and waited until the familiar, wonderful scent of coffee started to permeate the kitchen before wandering to the door of the loft to retrieve the newspaper.

She paged through the Ledger rather idly at first, only to stiffen and sit bolt upright as the headline of a small article in the City section caught her eye. Oh. She supposed she shouldn't be that surprised—it wasn't every day that shots were fired inside a police precinct—but somehow she was. With her emotional reaction to all that had happened, it hadn't occurred to her that her shooting of Dick Coonan might garner attention beyond the precinct itself. And yet, there it was in the paper. A small squib of an article that, thankfully, didn't identify her by name but only as a homicide detective at the 12th, while giving Dick Coonan's name and noting that he had been revealed to be a contract killer, suspected of a number of homicides. The article was mercifully sparse on details as to how the shooting had happened, saying only that it had been in the middle of an attempt on Coonan's part to escape and that the detective who fired the shot had been cleared of any wrongdoing.

Oh god. She stared at the article until the text started to blur before her eyes. Her happiness of the morning faded as the emotional ramifications from yesterday returned to her in a rush. She'd killed him. Dick Coonan, the man who'd killed her mother. She'd killed the man who killed her mother.

After all these years.

How many times had she wondered about this, thought about finally catching her mother's killer?

She'd thought it would feel… different. Better, somehow. Thought it wouldn't hurt. But that wasn't true.

She closed her fist around her mother's ring, shutting her eyes against the prick of tears. She had found her mother's killer and as incomplete as it was, had gotten a measure of justice.

Dick Coonan would never kill again.

A beeping sound had her starting, only to realize that the sound had come from the coffee machine to indicate that the coffee was ready.

Coffee. Yes, that was what she needed.

She poured two cups, one for herself and one for Castle, and felt a little tendril of warmth taking root in her chest, banishing some of the chill.

Her mother was still gone and that still hurt, as it always would, but she had gotten a measure of justice. And she wasn't alone anymore. As if in affirmation of that, she prepared first her coffee and then his, just the way he liked it.

Her first cup of coffee in the morning was always a solitary affair, a few minutes before she left her apartment for the day. Not today, not anymore.

The two coffees in hand, she returned to his bedroom.

She'd hoped that he would still be asleep but she found him sitting up, a rather lost expression on his face that immediately faded at her entrance, his eyes brightening, the beginnings of a smile curving his lips.

"You're still here," he breathed.

Oh. She felt her heart twist a little at the wonder in his voice that revealed probably more than he'd intended about how he'd felt when he'd woken up to an empty bed. And if she'd needed confirmation that she'd been right to stay, she had it in that moment. The thought of how he would have felt if he'd found her gone almost made her flinch and it occurred to her, again, that he was vulnerable too.

He was so… good. For all that he irritated her at times, he was a good man, a kind man, and braver than she'd ever given him credit for being. He'd risked his life for her, did so much to make her smile, make her life easier, and this in spite of her own prickly defenses, her guardedness.

He deserved more. More than her walls and reticence, more than what she'd given him.

It wasn't going to be easy but she wanted to try, would get better.

And that started now.

She gave him a small smile as she set their coffees down on the nightstand and perched on the bed, her hip nudging his leg. "I brought you coffee."

He didn't even glance at the coffee, only focused his gaze—his eyes so very bright, filled with a light she couldn't ever remember seeing before—on her. "Kate. You… okay?" he asked, softly, the question sounding a little hesitant, cautious.

God, what had he seen in her expression? Lingering traces of her emotion over the article about Dick Coonan's shooting? How did he read her so well? She abruptly felt transparent, exposed, and she didn't like it, never liked feeling so… bare, unprotected.

"Well, sleeping in your very comfortable bed was a hardship but I survived," she quipped. And then could have kicked herself. She was doing it again, hiding behind humor, deflecting from the emotion of the moment. (Odd, she'd never realized before that they had that in common, that they both found it easier to deflect from emotion with humor and teasing. She was more prickly than he was but they were both good at avoidance.)

She wasn't going to do this anymore. (At least, she was going to try not to.) She didn't have to do this anymore, hide like this. She _trusted_ Castle. She _did._ She should act like it.

"Happy to share my bed with you anytime," he returned lightly but there was a wealth of sincerity, of real emotion, in his expression.

She grimaced a little and lifted a hand to touch his cheek, her fingers ruffling the soft hair above his ear, and she wasn't sure if it was conscious or not, the way he tilted his head slightly into the caress. "Sorry, can I revise my answer?"

A faint smile quirked his lips. "Permission granted."

She let out a breath, meeting his eyes. "There's a little article in the paper about what happened," she told him quietly. "It just… brought it back for a moment."

Something flickered in his eyes, a shadow crossing his face. "Kate…"

She silenced him by brushing her thumb against his lips. "I'm okay though. Really." She paused, hesitated. Damn it, this was hard. She wasn't used to this sort of openness, not with anyone, really. Even with her dad, she tried to edit her words, tried to gloss over her own troubles to keep him from worrying. "Being here helps," she admitted, almost having to push the words out. _Being with him helped_ , but that more personal sentiment got caught in her throat.

She was rewarded by the light in his eyes, the smile that curved his lips. And then he was sliding his hand into her hair and tugging her forward to kiss her and she closed her eyes and decided fuzzily that she could definitely get used to this sort of positive reinforcement for being open with him.

He drew back slowly and she actually needed to blink a couple times to clear her muzzy brain but then, her composure was not at all assisted by the way he looked at her. Would she ever get used to the way he looked at her, as if she was the sum of all his dreams? (No.) Her breath stuttered in her chest.

"You brought me coffee," was all he said, though, after a moment.

"I did." She fought back a blush, the sudden urge to twirl her hair like some teenage girl. "I figured it's the least I could do, after all I owe you." How many coffees had he brought her, after all?

His eyes abruptly clouded over. "You don't owe me anything," he told her with sudden intensity. "You saved my life and—"

Oh no, she hadn't meant… But she supposed they did need to talk about this. They were being open, she reminded herself. "So did you," she interrupted him. "Last year, in the case involving the fake purses." (When he'd slept with Meredith—but she shoved the irrelevant thought out of her mind. It didn't matter.) She tried for a smile but only managed a twitch of her lips. "So we're even on the life-saving score." Her smile faded. "And I still owe you. The money. Castle…"

" _No_ , Beckett." It was his turn to interrupt her. "Don't even think you owe me for that. You don't. If you must, think of it as your share of the Nikki Heat profits—you should have gotten some anyway since if it weren't for you, Nikki Heat wouldn't even exist—and it's a smaller cut than Gina takes, as it is," he digressed.

She was momentarily thrown at this indication of how much money Nikki Heat had made for him, that $100,000 was only a small proportion of the total. She didn't know for sure but Gina's share as his publisher could not possibly be most of it and if what he'd paid was smaller than that…

"Oh my god, how rich are you?" she blurted out, inanely. "On second thought, don't answer that," she hastily added. She wasn't usually one for not wanting to know the truth but in this case, she was beginning to think ignorance might be bliss. She could guess—and her guesses were quite unnerving enough.

He was a multi-millionaire! And she was… just a cop. Her entire yearly salary was pocket change to him and even the money she'd inherited when her mom died was nothing compared to what he had.

"It's just money," he said.

Something only a rich person could ever say.

"It's not… it doesn't define who I am," he added. "It's not the most important thing about me. I'm just… me, okay, Kate?"

There was an odd thread of some emotion she couldn't quite identify in his voice, in his eyes, and she abruptly found herself remembering what that woman had called him at the MADT fundraiser last year, the white whale. She wasn't naive enough to think that Castle wouldn't have experienced the negatives that came along with fame and wealth, the sycophancy, the insincerity and ulterior motives. A year ago, it wouldn't have occurred to her to care; it wasn't as if mercenary motives would hurt the shallow jackass playboy she'd thought he was. Now, she knew better, knew him. She thought about the way he'd acted in the soup kitchen at Thanksgiving, thought about why he'd started to take Alexis there in the first place. The real man she'd come to know and… and care about.

She gave him a small smile. "'Just you' is plenty, Castle. I'm sure you don't need money to get into trouble," she teased, softening the words by touching his cheek with her fingertips.

He smiled, his expression easing as he caught her hand in his and turned his face to kiss her palm, sending tingles of pleasure radiating through every nerve from the spot he'd kissed. Mm… Oh god. If she'd wondered if the physical attraction between them would fade once they actually slept together, she had her answer. No, not yet. (Not ever?)

She grasped for some return to coherence. "Anyway," she managed as lightly as possible, "when I said I owed you, I was actually just thinking about all the coffee you've brought me."

"You don't owe me for those coffees either. All I ever wanted in exchange for the coffee was to see you smile."

Oh damn. It should have sounded like a clichéd line but it didn't, not from him, not at that moment. "Wow, Castle, you really are trying hard to be charming, aren't you?" she tried to tease.

He smirked at her. "Is it working?"

"I'll think about it," she quipped.

He laughed and (finally) picked up his coffee to take a sip before putting the cup down. "Good coffee."

"I think your specialty coffee beans and super-advanced coffee maker helped," she said rather dryly.

Rather to her surprise, he didn't respond with a quip or a smirk but instead looked a little uncertain for the first time since he'd seen her that morning. "Alexis is probably awake by now and she usually comes down for breakfast a little after 7. Do you need to leave, get ready for work?"

"Is this your way of subtly kicking me out, Castle?" she deadpanned teasingly.

"No!" he blurted out forcefully, his eyes widening in comical (and rather adorable) dismay. "No," he repeated more calmly.

She gave in to her smile. "Relax, Castle, I'm only teasing."

"Right." He gave her a quick half-sheepish smile. "Of course you're welcome to stay. I just wasn't sure what you wanted, if you wanted to stick around for breakfast or…" He trailed off and something inside her softened. She understood what he wasn't saying or asking, if she was okay with Alexis finding out about them, telling people, his family, about this new aspect of their relationship. He had said he wouldn't push her for declarations she wasn't comfortable with and he was keeping his promise. She knew that if she said she wasn't ready for anyone else to find out about them, wanted to keep this between themselves until they were more settled, he would agree. Not happily (she knew him well enough to know that) but he would agree.

She leaned in to kiss him quickly. "Captain Montgomery gave me the day off. So why don't you finish your coffee and get dressed and I'll start making breakfast."

"You're very sexy when you're bossy," he observed conversationally.

She smirked, to hide the ridiculous (delicious) little thrill that went through her at his words. (Oh, she did have it bad.) "You're strange."

He nodded with mock solemnity. "I pride myself on it."

She laughed, almost in spite of herself. He was just so… cute. And hers.

Wait, what?

Yeah, she decided, as she met his eyes, saw the familiar half-smirk curving his lips. Her heart might be fluttering wildly but she was entirely okay with him being hers. And she was his.

Oh god, what was she thinking?

Breakfast, she reminded herself, latching onto the mundane.

She squeezed his hand quickly in lieu of any other more intimate gesture that would, she didn't doubt, lead to both of them getting distracted and then picked up her own coffee and left his bedroom.

Right, making breakfast. And having another coffee.

Besides, Alexis was going to be down soon.

Back in the kitchen, she noted without surprise that the refrigerator was fully stocked with food and set herself to making eggs and bacon and taking out some fruit too.

She was, she realized as she cooked, surprisingly hungry. She usually had a quick breakfast on the run but today she felt like she wanted a real sit-down breakfast. She tried not to think about why that might be.

The scrambled eggs were plated up and she was just finishing up the bacon when Castle emerged, freshly showered and shaved and wearing a dark maroon shirt that she already knew would make the blue of his eyes appear brighter by contrast. (She had become really familiar with the effect the various colors of his shirts had on his eyes.) And she felt a charge of visceral attraction at his appearance that was so totally _ridiculous_ because they'd been working together nearly every day for almost a year now and she'd mostly stopped reacting just to his appearance this way and they'd already slept together and one would really think the intensity of the attraction would have faded a little. It hadn't. At all.

His expression lit up. "I thought I smelled bacon. Coffee and eggs _and_ bacon. I knew you were the perfect woman."

"Wow, you're easy, if you think making breakfast makes the perfect women."

He shrugged. "I already knew you more than meet my other requirements for perfection."

She felt herself flush, her heart giving a silly little flutter—damn, what he could do to her—but managed a light laugh. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

He waggled his brows at her in a teasing leer. "Oh no? You didn't seem to think that last night."

"Stop being so smug, Castle." She swatted at his hand but it was half-hearted at best and he knew it, blithely ignored it as he slid his arms around her waist. And she gave into his embrace without so much as a murmur, fitting against him as naturally as if they'd been doing this for years.

She looked up at him and he smiled, with less smugness this time. "Much better."

"Better?"

"Mm hmm, because now I can kiss you." He promptly suited action to the words and Kate sank into his kiss willingly.

The kiss ended slowly but only so his lips could skate along her chin up to the little hollow just before her earlobe and she tilted her head to give him better access on a gasp. Her gaze fell on the clock and a thought broke through her fuzzy mind and she made a weak attempt to twist out of his embrace.

"Castle."

"Hmm," he mumbled against her skin, having moved on so he was nuzzling the curve of her neck.

She struggled for coherence. "Castle—ohh," she broke off on a breathy little moan as his lips found her pulse point, "Alexis will be down soon."

The mention of Alexis did the trick and he released her, lifting his head, with palpable reluctance. "Right, thanks for reminding me."

She gave him a rueful smile. "I don't want to gross her out first thing in the morning."

His smile was soft as he dropped a kiss on her temple. "See, perfect woman."

"Don't be silly, Castle. I'm far from perfect," she returned but felt herself flushing in spite of herself. She turned away in a futile attempt to hide her blush, deliberately busying herself with their breakfast.

He followed her lead and they settled onto the stools at the kitchen island to eat.

It was just a couple minutes before Kate heard the sound of footsteps as Alexis came running lightly down the stairs, only to stop short at the foot of the steps as she caught sight of Kate. "Oh. Kate! You—uh, good morning," she finished so tentatively it sounded more like a question as the girl's eyes darted between Kate and her father.

Kate summoned as casual of a smile as she could (although she suspected it wasn't very.) "Good morning, Alexis."

Alexis's expression eased a little as her eyes rested on her dad. "Morning, Dad."

Castle gave Alexis a bright smile. "Good morning, sweetie. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, fine," Alexis answered automatically as she crossed the room, pausing on the other side of the kitchen island, her eyes bouncing between Kate and her dad. "Dad?" she began, a little uncertainly. "Are you and Kate, uh…"

Oh god. If Alexis wasn't okay with them being together… Kate didn't think that Castle would… end this—them—but he would be hurt. Alexis was the most important thing in Castle's life and he hated being at odds with Alexis. She suddenly remembered the argument Castle and Alexis had had over Dylan, Alexis's violin teacher, the look on Castle's face. She never wanted to see that sort of hurt and desolation on his face again.

Kate glanced at Castle, who gave her a look that said _it's up to you_ , and then back at Alexis and gave the girl a small smile. "Yeah, we are," she confirmed quietly and then, after a moment, slid her hand over so her fingers were brushing Castle's. Castle linked his fingers with his. "Are you… okay with this, Alexis?" Kate asked, more tentatively than she'd have liked to sound.

Alexis blinked at their joined hands on the counter and then flashed a quick, soft smile. "Yeah, of course. It's like I said before, Dad's happier when you're around." Alexis's smile changed, becoming mischievous, making her resemblance to her dad abruptly apparent. "Besides, you can help me keep Dad out of trouble."

"Hey!" Castle objected. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

Alexis snorted a little. "Sure you are, Mr. 'Let's Deep-Fry a Turkey.'"

"A guy burns off his eyebrows _one_ time and he never hears the end of it. Geez, can't a guy make one mistake?" Castle pretended to grumble.

Kate elbowed him, relaxing and falling in with Alexis's teasing. "One mistake, huh?" she teased. "I guess it must've been the other writer that shadows me who forgot to silence his phone last year when we were trying to take a suspect by surprise."

Alexis smirked. "Yeah, see, Dad?"

Castle huffed. "I don't think I like the way you two gang up on me."

Alexis laughed as she poured herself a glass of orange juice. "I think you'd better get used to it, Dad." She shot Kate a conspiratorial grin. "Right, Kate?"

"Right," Kate agreed but softened the tease by leaning in so her upper arm rested against his and squeezing Castle's hand briefly.

He took advantage of her proximity to kiss her hair and then nuzzle her ear.

She smiled involuntarily but nudged him away, mindful of Alexis, who had tactfully averted her eyes but whose cheeks were abruptly as red as her hair. "Behave, Castle."

"Yeah, really, Dad. I'm happy you're happy but don't be gross, okay?"

That made Castle laugh. "Oh, fine. I'll be good, I promise. Now come eat your breakfast, Alexis."

She did, slipping onto the stool on Castle's other side. Castle easily slung an arm around Alexis's shoulders and leaned over to kiss the top of her head before whispering something into the girl's ear that had Alexis smiling before he released her so she could eat her breakfast.

Kate had expected it to feel a little awkward at first—it wasn't like she was normally privy to these daily conversations where Castle asked Alexis about her plans for the day—but somehow, it didn't feel awkward. Not even Kate's built-in caution, her reticence, was proof against the ease of Alexis's cheerful prattle. She could not quite get over the surprise of how open-hearted and welcoming Alexis was—not that she wanted Alexis to be otherwise—but it was just so foreign to Kate, used to her solitary life, used to editing her words even when she talked to her dad. But she liked it, she thought, in spite of the little flutter of… _something_ … inside her, the tug on her heart, as she remembered relaxed mornings with her own parents, the realization of how… homey, how like a family, this whole morning felt.

The way Castle interacted with Alexis reminded her of the way her mom had interacted with her, the concern masked by the light teasing.

He was such a good dad. And her mom would have liked him for that too.

It was surprising how easy it was to relax into the warmth and the humor, and to realize that she and Castle had somehow fallen into acting much the same way her parents had acted with her. As if they were any normal family asking a kid about their day…

Family. It was a word, a feeling, that she'd hardly ever allowed herself to even dream of having again, not since her mom had died. Easier, safer, not to dream of what she didn't have, wasn't sure she could ever have again. But now, this morning, she thought maybe it wasn't so far out of reach after all.

Kate opened her mouth to make a laughing rejoinder to a story Alexis was telling when she lost not only her words but also her ability to concentrate on Alexis when Castle's hand migrated to rest on her knee, his thumb tracing idle circles over her kneecap. He wasn't looking at her, was still apparently focused on Alexis, but his hand remained on her knee.

She sternly corralled her senses into working order—or tried to, with limited success.

Fortunately for her, or something, it wasn't long before Alexis broke off. "Oh, I need to leave for school." She hurriedly slid off the stool, finished off her orange juice, and dropped a hasty kiss on Castle's cheek. "See you later, Dad. Bye, Kate."

"Have a good day at school, Alexis," Kate answered. And then felt another quick pang of something like pain, grief and longing stinging her again, at the memory of her mom saying the same words to her.

Alexis flashed a smile at Kate as she gathered up her school stuff. "I will, thanks, Kate."

"See you later, pumpkin."

And with a last smile and a wave, Alexis left and Castle turned to her, his smile immediately fading. "What is it?"

By now, she felt only the faintest flicker of surprise at Castle's ability to read her expression so easily. (She just wasn't sure if it was something about being with him that made her so apparently guileless or if it had more to do with how well he knew her. Or maybe it was a combination of the two.) She managed a faint smile. "Nothing. Just… memories," she offered, rather lamely.

His eyes softened and it should have bothered her since she usually hated pity but from Castle, she knew it wasn't pity he felt; it was different, warmer than that. She felt a little flutter of nerves because she didn't know if she was ready to share her memories. She generally didn't reminisce about her mom with anyone other than her dad; the memories hurt too much for her to speak of them easily. But then somewhat to her surprise, he didn't say anything more, didn't pry. He could undoubtedly guess at the sort of memories that had come to her mind but he wasn't going to ask. Warmth pooled in her chest, settled around her heart. He was giving her time, would allow her to open herself to him at her own pace.

He only slid his hand behind her neck to tug her in so he could brush his lips against her forehead, her nose, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. She let out a quiet laugh. "Need to work on your aim there," she teased a little breathlessly.

She felt his smile against her skin and then (finally) he kissed her on the lips, soft and slow and utterly drugging. He tasted like coffee, she thought muzzily. Coffee and Castle—mm, yeah, kissing Castle was definitely her new favorite thing.

The door of the loft opened and they both jerked apart as Martha came swanning in, stopping as she saw Kate. "Why, Katherine! And Richard." Her too-knowing smile settled on her son. "I see I'm not the only one having to do the walk of shame this morning."

"Mother!" Castle exploded.

Kate couldn't help but laugh even as she blushed hotly. "Ah, good morning, Martha," she managed to say, as calmly as possible. Martha was overly blunt and tactless, yes, but somehow it was hard to take offense at it because the woman was also so warm and it was clear there wasn't a particle of disapproval in her teasing.

"Good morning, my dear," Martha greeted Kate. "Good morning, Richard." She paused and then arched an eyebrow at his silence. "Aren't you going to say good morning, Richard? And do stop glowering."

She glanced at Kate. "I swear I taught him proper manners, Katherine."

"Morning, Mother," Castle finally said, his tone not particularly warm.

Kate deliberately leaned in towards him, moving her hand to cover his. "Stop sulking, Castle. I'm a cop, remember, not some delicate flower."

That made him laugh. "No, you're certainly not that. You're my badass Beckett."

She raised her eyebrows at him and sternly bit back a smile. "Yours, huh?"

"It's only fair since I'm definitely yours," he blurted out hastily.

She couldn't even pretend irritation at his possessiveness after that. "Oh well, if you put it that way, I'd hate to be unfair," she managed to quip but the words were entirely softened by her smile.

"I knew you two would be adorable together," Martha interjected and Kate flushed. Oh damn, she'd nearly forgotten Martha was there and she didn't even know how that was possible, given Martha's outsized personality and presence. "And on that note, I'll leave you two lovebirds alone. Don't do anything I wouldn't do, kiddos, although that's not much." With a wave of her hand, Martha disappeared upstairs, somehow managing to give the impression of exiting from a stage.

Castle dropped his head and then lifted it to look at her. "Sorry about that," he grimaced. "My mother was born without a filter or any sense of tact."

"Don't worry about it. I don't mind your mom at all."

"That makes one of us," he muttered.

She swatted at him. "Castle, be nice."

"I'm very nice! I haven't kicked her out yet, have I?"

"Stop pouting."

Predictably, he didn't, only pulled an even more over-the-top pout. The sort of ridiculous expression that would have provoked a roll of her eyes on any other day but somehow this morning, even the mild irritation was just not happening. And she couldn't help but smile because he was just so… cute, and for all his pretend griping about Martha, she knew very well how much he cared about his mother and she just… liked him for it.

His expression changed as he abruptly blurted out, "You are so gorgeous when you smile."

She flushed and bit her lip but found she couldn't quite look away, her eyes held by his, so blue and so bright, and she thought fuzzily that 'like' wasn't the right word for what she felt for him at all. "You're not so bad yourself," she teased but her voice came out sounding more breathless than humorous.

He bridled in mock indignation. "Not so bad? I'm ruggedly handsome; it's a fact. The Ledger's consistently named me one of New York's Most Eligible Bachelors and they always talk about how good-looking I am."

She snorted. "Really, Castle? You're boasting about being named an eligible bachelor to your girlfriend? And you call your mother tactless."

He abruptly looked delighted. What? She belatedly realized what she'd said and felt herself flush. Damn it.

"Beckett, did you just call yourself my girlfriend? Can I tell Espo and Ryan you said so?"

Silly man. She reached out to grasp his ear. "Do you want me to twist your ear off?"

He pretended to cringe. "Apples!"

She released his ear and he pasted on a mock injured expression. "I thought you'd be nicer to me."

She leaned in closer to him, lowering her voice to become husky. "Wait until tonight and I'll show you just how nice I can be…"

He choked a little, his eyes immediately going midnight blue with a flare of lust.

She straightened up and smirked at him, sternly resisting the magnetic tug of attraction making her want to pull him in and start being "nice" right that minute.

"Why wait until tonight? You said you have the day off," he suggested with a somewhat exaggerated leer.

"Castle, I am not going to spend all day in bed with you when your mother is at home," she scolded—attempted to scold since she had the uneasy feeling that her tone came out sounding more affectionately indulgent than disapproving.

He put on a mock scowl. "I beg you, never mention my mother and my bed in the same sentence again."

She had to laugh. "Sorry," she said unrepentantly. "Anyway, just because I have the day off doesn't mean I don't have things I want to do. I should go see Lanie to talk to her about what happened yesterday since otherwise, she'll hunt me down and I'm having dinner with my dad tonight."

"But you'll come back here after dinner?" he asked hopefully.

"Maybe. If you're lucky," she quipped. (Untruthfully. She had every intention of coming back here. Possibly—probably—oh, who was she kidding, definitely—with a bag. She started mentally planning which items of her lingerie drawer should accompany her…)

He laughed and leaned in until their noses were almost brushing. "You're always going to give me a hard time, aren't you, Beckett."

"Count on it, Castle," she managed, a little breathlessly. His nearness made it hard to think straight, let alone breathe.

"Good," he murmured against her lips and then he kissed her.

She sank into his kiss and the vague thought flitted through her mind before dissipating along with every other coherent thought, _this might be love..._

 _~The End~_

 _You've already won me over in spite of me  
And don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet  
Don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are  
I couldn't help it  
It's all your fault._

\- "Head Over Feet", Alanis Morissette

* * *

A/N 2: I'm pondering an epilogue but as it doesn't exist yet and I can't promise it will any time soon, I'm marking this complete. Thank you, everyone, who's read, reviewed, followed, or added this fic to their favorites, especially the guest reviewers whom I can't thank directly. I appreciate it all more than I can say.


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